Twenty First Century Man
by PhiraLovesLoki
Summary: He's lived for three centuries and been to countless realms, but very little could have prepared Killian Jones for the Land Without Magic. This is a series of canon-compliant one-shots that explores Hook's thoughts and feelings as he adapts to the strange new land he's found himself in.
1. Flying High (2x12)

**Hook + painkillers and running water**

 **Thanks to captswanjones, who suggested ibuprofen (I went more general here—"painkillers") and feeling-quilly, who suggested running water.**

* * *

When Swan finally left the overly bright, sterile room, Hook tried to get a sense of his situation. He still had a Crocodile to slay, or at the very least _avoid_ —he was now in a kill-or-be-killed scenario. It was time to determine his liabilities and assets, so he could formulate a plan and get the bloody hell out of this place.

He remained shackled to the bed he lay in; depending on the complexity of the locking mechanism, it was likely not an insurmountable obstacle. More worrisome than that was his attire; someone had undressed him and put him in an uncomfortable shift and scratchy dressing gown. His clothing was nowhere in sight, which meant that his lock pick was inaccessible. And, of course, his hook and brace were both missing.

And damn, it was cruel and unusual punishment to force a man to wear such itchy material and fail to give him the range of motion necessary to relieve his discomfort. He'd have to complain to Swan about that.

Topping off his liabilities, while he'd been in worse pain before, the pain he was in _was_ rather severe. Swan hadn't helped, what with her intentionally provoking him into flinching. Perhaps he could convince someone to heal him? Unlikely; if someone were interested in helping, they would have helped already.

He had to get out of here. Pain or no pain, he was just lying here, at the mercy of the Crocodile, or anyone else who might want to take advantage of the situation and dispose of Captain Hook.

He examined the shackle more closely. It wasn't a locking mechanism he was familiar with, and the little holes and gaps were too small for a makeshift pick to access. Even his own lock pick might not be sufficiently narrow, even if he had it on him.

As he stared at the shackle, he heard the door open. A young woman stood in the doorway, wearing in a short white dress, with a small white cap perched atop her head. "Sorry, sir, did I wake you up?"

"No, lass. I was simply acclimating to my surroundings."

She nodded, and he realized she was holding a tray; atop it sat a dish cover and a strange cylinder that appeared to be filled with liquid. "I brought you your dinner, if you're hungry."

He wasn't, but he might as well play along while he figured out his course of action. He nodded, and the woman approached him, placing the tray on a strange tall table off to the side.

He thought he would feel better sitting up, but as the woman helped him, the extent of his pain became abundantly clear, a stark reminder of his invalid state. Getting out of this place was going to be much more difficult than he anticipated.

Once he was upright, he saw that the table was on wheels; the woman was dragging it towards the bed so that he could reach his meal without having to get up. Well, at least that was something. Or it would be, if he had any intention of eating.

"Nurse?" A man in a long white coat stepped into the doorway and got the woman's attention.

"Yes?"

"When was his last dose of oxycodone?"

"Uh …." The woman was clearly caught off guard by the question. "I never gave him any, sir. He'd been unconscious since he arrived."

"All right, well, let's give him a dose now. Fifteen milligrams."

"Very well; I'll take care of it."

It was a little unnerving and slightly irritating that they were having a conversation that was clearly about him while simultaneously behaving as though he weren't present. However, it wasn't as though he was able to follow their conversation all that well: a dose of _what?_

The woman left briefly and returned with a small see-through cup, which contained … something he couldn't quite make out. She held out the cup to him before glancing at his hand. "As you can see, I've a limited range of motion," he said lightly, trying to set her at ease. Maybe she would free him?

No such luck. "Open your mouth."

"And what will I be ingesting?" It was unlikely to be poison, but given that he'd been to Wonderland, he knew better than to eat or drink something he couldn't identify.

"Oxycodone."

"I'm not familiar with that." Surely she understood he was from the Enchanted Forest and would have no idea what she meant?

The woman simply lifted an eyebrow. "Painkillers?" It was a term he didn't recognize, but at least it was self-explanatory. These must be drugs that would rid him of pain.

"Very well, lass, let's have it then." He hated feeling as helpless as he did as she tipped the small capsules into his mouth for him. But at least these drugs would relieve him of pain and enable him to escape.

"You swallow them," she said, mercifully before he crunched down on one with his teeth. "Do you need water?"

He swallowed, and they caught in his throat—quickly, he nodded, and the woman brought water to his lips for him. A few gulps, and the sensation of the painkillers sticking in his throat faded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Those should kick in pretty quickly. Anything else I can help you with?"

He shook his head; unless this woman would free him, she wasn't going to be very useful anymore.

But as he glanced over at the tray that carried his meal, he realized that perhaps she _could_ be useful. After all, lock picks came in all shapes and sizes.

"I understand that I'm not to go anywhere, but it won't be possible for me to feed myself while I'm shackled so." He pulled at the shackle for good measure. "I'm sure you have other matters to attend to, and I wouldn't feel right asking you to stay here and assist me. Perhaps I could be trusted simply to eat my meal?"

Several expressions flashed across her face—irritation and disbelief were prominent at first, but then he could see her debating the benefits and disadvantages. And finally, she caved with a sigh. "All right, I'll be right back again."

This time, her absence was much longer. It wasn't alarming; she was clearly not the person in charge and was likely trying to acquire permission. Swan probably held the key to the shackle anyway.

Ah, Swan. It was unfortunate that they found themselves on the opposite sides of a conflict, and even more so that she hadn't even trusted him when they were on the _same_ side. Imagine what it would be like to work alongside her when she was a _willing_ ally! He couldn't suppress his grin at the thought. He'd gotten just a taste of fighting alongside her, and it had been so refreshing.

She was a fascinating woman, to be sure. Not that it was odd to meet a princess who wore trousers, who willingly engaged in violence, or who had endured hardship; Snow White famously met those same qualifications. But Swan had felt like a _pirate._ And he quite liked that. Very much. What might she look like if she dressed the part? Not that he didn't appreciate how skin-tight her clothing already was.

How long had the woman been gone? He was reminded of his time in Neverland, when moments seemed to stretch out or blur together. But he couldn't bring himself to feel worried about it. He felt … well, he felt rather good, actually. Odd, wasn't it?

Finally—or had it been a minute or two?—the woman returned with a small key. "Just so you can eat, okay?" she asked sternly. He nodded and suppressed a wild grin as she unlocked the cuff that was shackled to the bed frame. "Then I've gotta come back and redo the cuff—sorry, doctor's orders."

"Thank you very much, lass." He sounded inebriated—how strange. "I appreciate your kindness."

"Yeah, well, okay." And with that, she was gone.

Excellent! Now he could get out of this wretched place. He shifted up, finally able to brace himself with his right arm. Finally able to relieve the itch that had been plaguing him ever since he awoke.

Finally able to … pull that table over and see what meal had been provided for him. He was actually feeling a bit more peckish than he'd previously thought, and he was curious to see what the woman had provided.

The main course appeared to be some sort of meat slathered in an unappetizing sauce. Well, that was fine; he'd had worse, after all. There were also some chopped carrots mixed with peas. The cylinder, which looked like an unusually-shaped bottle, had a label on it with a lot of confusing information. But it claimed to be spring water, and by all accounts, it _looked_ like water; he tucked it gently between his left arm and his chest and undid the strange cap with his hand. Yes, it _was_ water, nice and chilled and quite refreshing, even if it did come in a very strange receptacle.

He was about to begin his meal when he noticed something else on the tray. Something blue.

And … wobbly. What on _earth_ was that?

Drugs. He'd been _drugged,_ he recalled. Those _painkillers_ must be causing him to imagine things. But no, he reached out and touched the plate that the strange substance sat upon; the plate was real enough. Tentatively, he poked the material.

It jiggled.

Well, there was no bloody way he could eat this … whatever it was. What _was_ it?

This was ridiculous; he was a well-traveled pirate who'd lived centuries, and he was spooked by some unknown delicacy. His crew would be in stitches over his trepidation. He shook his head in disdain at himself before grabbing the provided fork and getting started on the meat and vegetables.

As he'd expected, the dish was edible, though not especially delicious, and it mostly sated his hunger. What remained unsatisfied, though, was his curiosity. What _was_ this blue substance?

Swan would know. Best find her. Perhaps she was still here.

It was relatively easy to rid his body of all the strange cords and tubes that had been attached to him, though he found he was dizzier than expected as he swung himself around and pushed himself off the bed. And he was immensely pleased to find that the painkillers had indeed killed the pain—well, to a degree, enough that he could walk slowly.

Time to find Swan; he grabbed the plate.

As he began wandering down the hallway, squinting in the strange, unearthly light, no one seemed to even give him a second glance. It had its benefits; no one was accosting him and dragging him back to that bed. But no one was assisting him either, and he hadn't the faintest idea of where he was even trying to go.

There was signage everywhere, reminding him again of Wonderland, though he suspected the signs here were actually meant to be helpful and not deceitful. However, the majority of the labels were entirely foreign to him (what on earth was _obstetrics?)._

As he stared at some arrows, trying to make sense of the words and phrases, and slowly forgetting why he'd gotten up in the first place, there was a tap on his shoulder. He nearly dropped the plate he was holding; how had he not noticed someone approaching him?

It was another woman. "You seem a little lost," she said kindly. "Where are you trying to go?"

It took him a moment to come up with an answer. "I'm trying to find my—friend. She visited me a few minutes ago."

"She's probably in the waiting room." The woman pointed down one of the many hallways that seemed to surround them. "Just follow the signs, and you'll find her nice and easily."

"My thanks," he said with a smile and a nod. The _waiting room_ sounded a little on the nose, but then again, so did many things in this strange world. And so he began his shuffle in that direction, following signs and arrows as he saw them.

There was finally a room before him with chairs and people who certainly looked as though they were waiting. And sure enough, there was Swan!

"What's this?" he asked. Journey over, he leaned up against the door and held up the offending substance. "I found it on a tray."

"Really?" Swan asked angrily, approaching him. She was glaring at the shackle still dangling from his wrist.

"Pirate," he reminded her, though he didn't clarify his method of lock-picking. There were more pressing matters to attend to. Specifically: "What the bloody hell is this?"

She was as irritated as he'd ever seen her, _far_ angrier than she had been earlier. "Gel oh," she said, glaring at him.

"It's food—you eat it," Snow White added, sounding just as aggravated.

"I thought it was an hallucination," he admitted. An annoyed chuckle got his attention, and he turned to see a statuesque brunette who seemed exasperated at his intrusion. "Hello," he said, resisting the urge to lick his lips. "You're quite real, aren't you?"

The woman scoffed rolled her eyes—fair enough. But he _was_ rather pleased with Swan's reaction. "Go," she said sharply, and she roughly tugged him around and began practically dragging him along with her. "Eat your gel oh."

Twisting around suddenly reawakened some of the pain in his torso, and he grunted as she pulled him along. "No need to be so rough, Swan. I didn't mean to make you jealous."

"What? I'm not—who am I supposed to be jealous of?"

"That lovely lass I just spoke to." He grimaced. "She _was_ real, yes?"

"Ruby?" She sounded incredulous. He enjoyed that. "Please, as if I care who you're hitting on when you're flying high on opioids."

"I've no clue what you mean, love."

"Whatever."

It had taken what felt like ages for him to locate Swan in the first place, but they were back in his room in the blink of an eye. "All right, any last requests before I cuff you again?" she grumbled.

"Must you?"

"Um, _yeah,"_ she replied impatiently.

There would be no arguing with her—he could sense that. Her mood had turned sour since she'd woken him and threatened him, however long ago that had been, and he surely would fail to make any progress with her at the moment. His hunger was mostly sated (though perhaps he would try this "gel oh" substance—if it were poisonous, there were easier ways to off him), and any itches he would want to scratch had yet to surface.

He eyed the bottle of water, still half full and sitting on the tall table. "Perhaps I could use the chamber pot," he said. "I hate to be difficult, but if you wouldn't mind pulling it out for me, I'd appreciate it immensely. With my injuries, I doubt I could do so myself."

Swan didn't answer. He turned and found her staring at him with a mixture of confusion and amusement on her face. "What?" he asked.

She silently pointed to a narrow door within the room that he hadn't noticed before. He shuffled over and opened it, finding a dimly lit closet with very, very strange furniture inside: an odd-looking ceramic chair that looked quite uncomfortable, a cabinet with a bowl sunk into it, and tiny curtained stall. "I'm afraid I don't quite follow, Swan," he admitted.

"Here," she said, gently pushing him out of the way so she could stand in the closet. "This is a toilet," she explained, grabbing the seat of the chair and lifting it up. "You … do your business in there and then you push down on this thing to flush it away."

"You sit on that?"

"Well, if you're … uh …" She blushed fiercely. "Most guys stand up and pee into it, and then sit for the other thing."

 _The other thing._ Swan was too shy and embarrassed to explain defecation to him. It would have been endearing, except that he was reasonably sure he'd be similarly uncomfortable in her shoes. She seemed to shake it off, though, and she continued with her lesson. "Anyway, after that, you have to wash your hands—well, hand. So, you use the sink." She pointed to the bowl in the cabinet and then grabbed at a fixture. "Cold water on the right, hot on the left, although hot water usually takes a bit to warm up. Soap's right here."

As she spoke, water actually came pouring out of another fixture. He couldn't help but push into the closet beside her so he could see better. Yes, it was _indeed_ water, flowing out of _nowhere,_ and running down a small hole at the base of the bowl. Hadn't Cora told him this was the Land _Without_ Magic? How was this possible?

Oblivious to his distress, but (he noted with pleasure) not oblivious to how closely pressed together they were in the tiny room, Swan pointed to the stall. "That's a shower. It works sort of like a sink, but you stand in the stall and the water rains down on you so you can get clean."

"Are you quite serious?"

"Yeah." She was smirking a little. "I bet you're going to be glad you're not in the Enchanted Forest once you take your first shower. That was seriously the first thing I did when Mary Margaret and I finally got home. I was in there for, like, an hour and a half and used up all the hot water. Mary Margaret was _pissed."_

It was a nice moment. He felt _really_ good, with her pressing gently into him, and the smell of her hair invading his nostrils. She hadn't been this open with him since … well, not even when they were dealing with the giant. Though his body seemed keen on lying back down for more rest, he was more interested in staying in this closet with Swan, enjoying the warm fuzziness that pervaded his body and mind.

"Uh, so I'll leave you to it." Her anxious tone broke through the warmth a bit, bringing him back to his senses. Without another word, she pushed past him, exited the closet, and shut the door behind her.

The seat of the strange chair— _toilet_ , she'd said—had a lid that Swan had already lifted up. He could now see that below the lid lay a ceramic bowl of water. He was to urinate in _that?_

Very well, he supposed. He managed to adjust the shift he wore, and though it was difficult to balance due to his injuries, he did his business. He was immensely grateful he'd thought to ask Swan about the chamber pot; he hadn't realized just how badly he'd needed to relieve himself.

Once finished, he reached for the lever Swan had pointed to and pushed it down. He grunted in surprise as the toilet roared to life, and the waste and water was sucked down into _nowhere_. He could hear Swan snickering in amusement at his audible reaction. These terrifying things were commonplace in this world? And bloody hell, now the bowl was _refilling_ with water ...

"You have to wash your hand," she called out. How long had he been standing there, staring at the toilet? These drugs were skewing his sense of time far too much; he wasn't sure they were worth the pain relief.

He turned to the sink. What had she said? Cold on the right, hot on the left, hot would take time to heat up, soap to the side. Yes—one knob was labeled with a "C," another with an "H," and there was a box on the wall that read "SOAP." Mercifully, there was a button that said, "PUSH;" Swan had neglected to explain how to get the soap out of the strange dispenser.

Cold water that came from nowhere was odd enough, but _hot_ water? This he had to experience for himself. He twisted the appropriate knob, this time expecting the cascade of water that resulted. Tentatively, he stuck a few fingers into the stream, finding it cool but not unbearably so. How long would it take to heat up?

As he was thinking of teasing Swan over her mistake, it changed, and suddenly warm—no, _hot_ water was scalding him. He reflexively jolted away. Why would anyone want such hot water anyway? He quickly shut it off and turned the cold water on instead before turning to the soap.

It took two tries to get some soap on his fingers; when he'd first pushed, the strange pink liquid had just dripped out the bottom of the box and onto the surface below. On his second attempt, he turned his hand palm up under the dispenser and pushed the button with his thumb; now, the liquid fell into his hand. The substance smelled strange, but much less offensive than most of the soap he was used to. He quickly wetted his hand and rinsed it as best he could before shutting off the water and drying himself on his dressing gown.

"You done in there?" Swan asked impatiently.

Yes, but also no. Yes, he was finished relieving himself and washing up. But in the short amount of time he'd been conscious since the events at the town line, nearly everything felt _changed._ He was drugged and imprisoned, and now he was in a tiny little room full of strange inventions designed for personal hygiene. This new world was terrifying.

He stared at a mirror above the sink; he _looked_ different. Yes, he recognized himself; his hair was tousled but, as always, it looked intentionally mussed. His facial hair was groomed just as he liked it. It wasn't unusual for him to look so bloodied and battered either, as he'd been in his share of battles and fistfights, and he always thought it made him look rather rakish.

But in this light, in this attire, he looked pathetic. His eyes were unfocused and hazy. The oversized and ill-fitting dressing robe made him look like a boy dressed in his father's clothes.

He'd always known that revenge on the Crocodile would cost him his life, and he'd understood that by facing the monster in Storybrooke, it meant dying here as well.

But he hadn't realized he would lose his dignity, too. He was going to die in this strange world, entirely out of his element. Bloody hell.

"Seriously, I know you're still in there," Swan called out. "No windows to climb out of." She paused. "Did you drown?"

"I'm fine, love," he called back, before turning and opening the door. Swan had been sitting on the bed, waiting for him; she hopped off and waited for him to climb back in.

It was a longer and more difficult process than he'd anticipated, getting back into that bed, though he hadn't planned on returning when he'd left it. What had possessed him to seek out Swan in the first place?

The gel substance, back on the tray, caught his eye—oh, right.

Swan looked as though she kept thinking of helping him before stopping herself. But soon enough, he was back in the bed and mostly settled. She stepped up beside him, gently grabbed his wrist, and redid the shackle.

"All right, well … Just stay here, okay?"

"I've no other choice, do I?"

And with a roll of her eyes, she was gone.

His mind turned back to his escape plan. It wouldn't be difficult to convince the attendant to release him again, especially since he very obviously hadn't fled the premises upon leaving his room. Even better, he'd simply run (or hobbled, more accurately) straight into the arms of the Savior; if anything, he'd been looking to get caught.

That couldn't happen again, and it wouldn't. It was these _drugs_ , he was sure of it. Although the pain relief was quite something, nearly as magical as the closet with water coming out of nowhere, the rest of the effects were a different matter. Though he was enjoying the warm fuzziness, it was making him behave absurdly. What sort of pirate managed to free himself, only to get distracted by unusual food?

It was then that another effect of the drugs made itself known, and he found himself falling almost immediately into a deep and troubled sleep.


	2. Notice (2x15)

**Hook + NYC**

 **Thanks to dramawiie for the suggestion!**

* * *

It was as though no one ever seemed to remember that he was a pirate. On the one hand, it was bloody useful when it came to getting what he needed. On the other hand, it was a tad offensive, as though he were entirely unmemorable no matter what he did.

As he only had the one hand in the first place, he opted for the former as his general attitude. After all, it was quite entertaining to see what exactly people wouldn't notice.

Regina had been so focused on helping Cora find the Dark One's dagger that she hadn't noticed that someone had broken into her vault. It hadn't been surprising to find that the vials of locator spell hadn't been well-protected—on its own, it was an innocuous spell, after all. Nothing dangerous, or difficult to make. Nothing that needed to be protected from vengeful pirates.

Snow White had been too distracted to notice that one of the windows to her dwelling had been left unlocked (here he would have liked some credit, though—climbing up to it had been no small feat given his injuries). On a dresser upstairs, there was a brush that clearly belonged to Swan, with several of her long blonde hairs stuck within the bristles. He had taken one of the small, elastic bands that had been wrapped around the base, reasoning that she wouldn't miss such an insignificant item.

And the prince, of course, was still dazed by the blow he'd sustained to his head. Far too dazed to notice that there was anything missing from his pockets. Like the small, folded piece of leather that contained what seemed to be this realm's currency.

From the bits and pieces of conversation he'd eavesdropped on, it was clear that wherever the Crocodile had gone, he had been deliberately unforthcoming about his destination. However, Hook had been able to glean some information from a discussion between Snow White and the prince, during which time, Snow White had relayed a message from Swan. Apparently, she, Henry, and the Dark One had traveled to a place called "Logan," which was a waypoint between Storybrooke and a city called "New York." While the locator spell should do its duty, it was beneficial to know the name of the place he'd be traveling to.

And just in case, it wasn't difficult to pilfer a map from one of the local shops. Naturally, no one noticed.

The journey on water went relatively smoothly; he wasn't sure if Cora's cloaking spell remained in effect once he'd left Storybrooke's borders, but no one seemed to pay much mind to the _Jolly Roger._ The few ships he spotted along the way (all similar to the dumpy little vessels that littered the harbor in Storybrooke) were captained by folks who were preoccupied with their own business anyway.

The locator spell was proving quite useful. He was familiar with the concept—after nearly three centuries, there was very little magic unfamiliar to him—but he had been concerned that this object of Swan's would simply speed off into the breeze, leaving him behind entirely. But thankfully, the magic seemed to understand what he needed, and the item floated in front of the wheel, drifting port or starboard when necessary. Meanwhile, he annotated the map, mainly out of habit. But it would be bad form to sail to an unknown land without some sort of record of the route.

The object he'd stolen from Swan was, he had to admit, a little fascinating. Though it had been years (hundreds of years) since he'd worn his hair long, he was familiar with the thongs and ribbons and such that were used to tie back one's hair. He himself had preferred a leather string. He might not have understood that this object was also a hair tie if it hadn't been for its placement and condition, but now he had to admit that it was rather obvious.

And ingenious. He'd since gotten over some of his culture shock (though what Cora explained to him was _indoor plumbing_ was still unnerving, even if it seemed useful), and could at least begin to appreciate the utility of some of the strange innovations. This particular hair tie was extremely elastic and didn't actually require that a person _tie_ it at all, as it was one continuous circle. He wondered what it was made from.

He saw his destination well before he reached it, and he found himself grateful that he'd brought along the locator spell. Many cities he'd traveled to in the Enchanted Forest and other realms had been rather large; assuming New York was similar, he'd expected it might take a few hours to suss out the location of the Crocodile, even without the spell.

But this? This sprawling, metallic, smoggy jungle with buildings so tall, he was sure they must be prone to toppling over? Without the aid of magic, how was he supposed to locate _anyone?_ Bloody hell, even _with_ magic, how could he? This wasn't a city—it was a _country._

The men at the pier seemed a little suspicious of both his attire and his sudden materialization; the cloaking spell did seem to remain functional. When they made the assumption that he was some sort of entertainer who'd used a parlor trick to appear out of thin air, they did seem to relax. However, he very well couldn't have another ship docking here and discovering an invisible one already taking up space; the currency from the prince's wallet, and a few jokes about invisible ships seemed to satisfy the workers.

Swan's hair tie was cutting off his circulation slightly, as he'd secured it around his wrist, but its magic still worked effectively. He could feel it tugging at him, ever so slightly, as he made his way into the city. He had no other guide, and so he let himself be gently dragged along, all the while taking in the sights.

He quickly noticed the patterns. There seemed to be some sort of grid, made up of the paved roadways running east-to-west and north-to-south. They were packed with those strange horseless carriages he'd encountered in Storybrooke, along with other odd vehicles that only had two wheels.

As in Storybrooke, there were paths alongside the roadways for people to walk down, but these particular paths were simply _filled_ with people, as well as carts and stands and strange objects. He had never before felt so claustrophobic in such an open space.

And the _stench—_ granted, he was accustomed to the scents and smells of the Enchanted Forest, as well as those of a crew on a ship that hadn't made port in quite some time. But the fresh air of Storybrooke had lulled him into olfactory complacency. And more than that, this particular odor was of a different quality than anything else he'd ever experienced; it was cloying, chemical, suffocating.

Almost as terrible as the stench was the cacophony that arose from having so many people and so many horseless carriages in such a small space. The carriages themselves were quite noisy, filling the air with a mechanical roaring, interrupted only by what might be described as _honking_. And then there were sounds that were more familiar to him, that came from being in an area filled with people: talking, shouting, singing—to themselves, to each other, to whole crowds.

All the while, his wrist continued to tug at him, gently but persistently. Whenever he felt himself becoming distracted or overwhelmed, the hair tie would pinch at him, and he would snap back to himself and his task.

Find Emma Swan so he could find the Crocodile and kill him.

"Mister pirate? Excuse me, mister pirate?" He felt a tug on his longcoat.

The tug and the voice belonged to a small child, perhaps four years old. She peered up at him with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth. "Yes?" he asked, unsure of what a babe would want with him.

"Can I get a picture with you?"

"Sorry, she's super into pirates right now." There was a woman behind the child, who was holding up a small object he was beginning to recognize as a talking device. Everyone in this land seemed to have one. "Do you mind if we take a picture of her with you? It would make her day."

He looked down at the tiny little girl, with her blonde curls and hopeful eyes. It had been years since he'd seen such an expression on a child's face. The last time he'd seen it, it had been …

"Of course," he said, his voice hoarser than he'd expected. Granted, with the filth that he'd been breathing in, he shouldn't have been surprised.

"Oh, thank you!" the woman said. "Okay, Susie, smile for the camera!" The little girl turned to face the woman and looked at the device—the _camera—_ with a wide grin on her face. Hook followed her lead, opting to smirk instead. "Got it! Thanks so much, mister …"

"Jones." He hadn't been keen on giving this stranger information about himself, but the hair tie was tugging at him insistently and he was too distracted to lie. "Have a lovely day, madam." And to the young girl, he nodded. "And to you, Captain Susie." She beamed before the woman grabbed her hand and led her away.

If his revenge didn't kill him, he would need to get some clarification regarding that device. He could have _sworn_ it was for talking, but apparently, it was for something else.

He'd seen _pictures_ when he'd broken into the sheriff's station and Snow White's loft, so he understood that now there would be a likeness of him standing beside the little girl, which could be put in a frame and displayed in their home. Now, at least, he had some modicum of understanding of how those images were captured in the first place.

The tie tugged on his wrist. Time to go.

As he let himself be led around the city by his wrist, he thought about how exactly he would enact his revenge. He was very pleased with himself for how he'd handled Belle; he hadn't wanted to hurt her, and he'd especially wanted to avoid killing her. Not that he'd been swayed in any way by her saving his life; he just knew that it would be more satisfying if he could force a separation between them, so that the Dark One would have to watch his love from afar, but remain unable to be with her.

The look on the Crocodile's face as Belle stared back at him in confusion and fear, with no recognition on her face, was priceless. He wished he could watch the moment again and again, for hours at a time; he was sure he would never grow tired of the memory.

Agony. That's what he needed. The Dark One didn't deserve a quick death, as much as it would be satisfying to sink his hook into the monster's jugular and watch him bleed out. He patted the breast of his longcoat, feeling the shape of the small vial he'd saved all these years. The concentrated dreamshade would fulfill his needs; the Crocodile would perish, amidst excruciating pain, knowing his fate but unable to stop it.

It would be another memory Hook would cherish through the end of his days, however many of them he had left.

Perhaps, though, he might survive? This was the Land Without Magic, after all; the Dark One would be both mortal and powerless. And the beast of a man was with Swan, who seemed reluctant to do more than simply lock up those in her way.

But then again, she might leave him with the local authorities if he couldn't charm her into letting him get away with his plan. And he'd no clue what the laws were like here, but he was reasonably sure that walking up to a man and murdering him would result in quite a penalty, possibly execution.

That didn't matter, though. It did not matter what happened to him, so long as he could enjoy that moment, of tearing into the Crocodile's flesh and watching the terror in the monster's eyes.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost barreled straight into Swan.

Bloody hell—he quickly crossed to the other side of the roadway before he could be noticed. It wasn't difficult; he simply let himself be carried away with a crowd of people who were also crossing. Once he'd reached the pathway meant for walking, he turned his attention back to Swan. She didn't show any sign of having noticed him.

As expected, she was with the Crocodile, though the Dark One was several paces ahead of her. So was a young boy; he had yet to meet the oft-mentioned Henry, but this seemed likely to be him. The boy appeared to be attempting to engage the demon in conversation, with little success.

Swan herself was walking alongside a man Hook didn't recognize. She didn't appear to feel comfortable around him; she walked stiffly, with her shoulders practically up to her ears. He'd _never_ seen her so tense before, not even on the beanstalk.

Both pairs came to abrupt stops at nearly the same time; the boy and the Dark One seemed to have recognized they'd arrived at a particular destination, whereas Swan and her companion appeared to have halted to have a serious conversation. Henry, however, interrupted, and soon, the four of them were walking into a building.

This was his chance. His heart began to pound. This was it, this moment.

He nearly dropped the vial of concentrated dreamshade as he pulled it from his coat and popped open the cork. This was happening. It was really happening.

He nearly dropped it again when some rude fellow practically shoved him over, walking into him by accident. "Hey, asshole, you can't just fucking stand in the middle of the sidewalk!" His accent was thick and unrecognizable.

"Apologies, mate, just getting my bearings."

"Get them somewhere else, you jerk!" And the man stalked off.

One thing was certain: he would be getting the bloody hell out of this wretched place as soon as his business was finished.

He shook his head. Where was he? Oh, yes. He poured the poison onto his hook, tossed the empty vial into a receptacle he'd seen other people throw refuse into, and crossed the road once again.

He could hardly think—barely process what he was finally, _finally_ doing.

Open the door.

Move Swan out of the way.

Shove the Crocodile to the ground.

Sink his hook into his chest.

"Tick tock."


	3. Unexpected Gifts (3x10)

**Hook + modern grooming practices**

 **Thanks to dramawiie for suggesting modern eyeliner/Sephora, and to euphoric-melancholyy for suggesting a modern razor!**

* * *

Hook forced himself to turn away as Bae approached Emma. It didn't matter that he was right about Emma, that she wouldn't let her former lover back into her heart very easily. He still should have expected that Bae wouldn't back down so easily from what was, in retrospect, a rather obvious challenge. He'd hoped that Bae would have gone another route, insisting that he didn't _need_ Hook to back off to win Swan's heart, as opposed to jumping at the opportunity to move in while Hook stayed back.

But he was a man of honor once again. He couldn't go back on that promise he'd made to himself; it didn't matter that he'd made such a promise in Bae's _memory_ , when he was mistakenly presumed deceased. What mattered was that Swan was starting to see him as a good man, not just a pirate, and he couldn't allow himself to slip back into the darkness out of anger and wounded pride.

Besides, it was inevitable that Bae would disappoint Swan. And while there was no guarantee that she would come running into his waiting arms when it happened, there _was_ an undeniable connection between them. He'd felt it on that beanstalk, on his ship, in the jungles of Neverland, when she'd kissed him—

He needed a distraction.

"Hey, pirate!" It was a dwarf, specifically the most ill-tempered one.

"Aye?"

"Snow says you helped."

He found himself unable to prevent himself from rolling his eyes. It should have been obvious to anyone in Storybrooke, including the most simple-minded of residents, that he had assisted in Henry's rescue, since it was _his ship_ that had ferried them all to that cursed island in the first place and back. Clearly, though, he was still a _pirate_ , and therefore not to be trusted without the princess vouching for him.

But he had no desire to worsen his relations with anyone in this town by pointing out their stupidity. Instead, he simply replied, "I did."

And with that, another dwarf clapped him on the back, and within moments, he found himself doing just as Bae had jested: throwing back a few beers with the dwarves.

He tried to hide his relief as best he could at discovering that the men seemed to have taken it upon themselves to act as a welcoming committee. He wasn't the only person who had arrived from the Enchanted Forest separately from the curse; many of the Lost Boys were also in need of assistance, as was the mermaid who had ferried Pandora's Box across realms. And the dwarves seemed keen on explaining some of the basics of living in the Land Without Magic.

And so he listened attentively as they explained where he could obtain this realm's currency, and which businesses in Storybrooke still accepted doubloons. As they mentioned that there were vacancies here at Granny's if he preferred to stay somewhere with indoor plumbing. As they discussed work that needed doing down at the docks.

He recalled something Swan had mentioned to him, back when he'd been incapacitated in—

—"What was that place called?" he asked, taking advantage of the dwarves' helpfulness. "Where I was taken after I was struck by that machinery?"

"Hah-ah-ah! Choo!" The dwarf couldn't hold back his sneeze. "Sorry. Hospital. Why?"

"Thanks, mate. No reason, just occurred to me I didn't know it." He let the conversation resume—

—when he'd been incapacitated in the hospital. It had been one of the few times he'd seen Swan carefree, unburdened by her responsibilities. She'd confided in him that using a shower to bathe after spending time in the Enchanted Forest had been a wonderful feeling. Or something like that; his memories were a bit hazy from the drugs he'd been given at the time. Perhaps he would give that a try.

He thanked the men for their kindness and hospitality before approaching the Widow Lucas. Her reputation in the Enchanted Forest was one he was familiar with, such was her ferocity and pride. He'd never personally encountered her until now, though given his own reputation as a scoundrel, it had probably been for the best. Even now, she was eyeing him with suspicion.

"Can I help you?" she asked dourly. Granted, he was interrupting her while she was in conversation with the prince.

"Pardon my interruption, but I was wondering if you might have any accommodations available." The prince's eyebrows shot up, and so he felt the need to explain further. "I've heard many a positive thing about showers, and no such thing exists on my ship."

"I'll go grab you a key," the proprietor replied. "That'll be six doubloons, by the way."

"Of course." Bloody exploitation, it was, but he knew not to argue. As she walked away, he fished through his coat for the necessary coins.

"You're staying?" The prince was staring at him.

The answer wasn't so simple. It certainly wasn't a given that he would stay, especially when he had a ship capable of traversing realms. But he was no fool; telling the father of the woman he fancied that he was planning on staying _for her_ would likely result in another punch to the face.

"I'm not thinking that far ahead at this point," he replied instead. He anxiously ran his hand over his face. "I simply thought it might be nice to rest for a bit, and perhaps finally sample the amenities."

"I see," David replied, his face impassive. He furrowed his brows a bit, and for a moment, Hook wondered if perhaps the prince would call him out on his reason for staying. "Beard's getting long."

Well, that was certainly an odd comment. Fortunately, the Widow Lucas returned with a key. "Room five," she said curtly, holding out her other hand for his payment. As he made the exchange, she pointed out the hallway for him to take.

"I suppose that's my cue," he said.

The prince continued to stare for a moment before finally nodding. "Well, have a good night, Hook."

"Aye, you as well, mate." He watched as the prince rejoined his wife, who seemed to be watching Swan with concern. The Savior herself was sitting in a booth, being spoken to by a few denizens of Storybrooke he didn't recognize, but she was very clearly distracted by her own thoughts. Was she still worried about Henry? Was she frustrated over Baelfire's persistence? Was she, he wondered hopefully, thinking about him?

Well, he'd get nowhere with her tonight, no matter what she was thinking about. He said he'd give Bae a fair shot, and he would. He gripped the key and headed for the hallway, following the Widow Lucas' directions.

Room five was a cozy little room at the end of the hallway, with a small double bed covered with a quilt. There was also a chest of drawers with a mirror atop it, as well as a small bedside table. Upon that sat a lamp, or at least what passed for a lamp in this realm. Thankfully, the dwarves had already explained to him how it would function, through use of a "light switch." And he had to admit, the illumination it provided was bright and even, much better than any oil lamp or candle he'd used.

He undressed quickly before heading into the small adjoining room—the _bathroom_ , the dwarves had said. It was similar to the one he'd encountered in the hospital, though instead of a small stall, the shower appeared to have a tub at its base. Perhaps he could bathe instead? Here were the fixtures for hot and cold water, as he'd remembered; he spent some time fiddling with each knob until the temperature met his needs.

After several long minutes trying to determine how to stopper the tub, he gave up and pushed on the lever that indicated a switch between a bath and a shower. Instantly, water began shooting out of a bulb towards the top of the stall, spraying him in the face. He sputtered; _this_ was what Swan had been going misty-eyed over? This was terrible, and water was getting everywhere.

Oh, there was a curtain; that might help. He pulled it shut, preventing the water from spilling all over the bathroom floor. That was better.

He moved underneath the spray, directing it to various parts of him. As the dwarves had indicated, there were small bottles of scented liquids that sat on an outcropping. As he'd been instructed, he rubbed liquid from the bottle that read "shampoo" into his hair, and then he used the "body wash" to, as it were, wash his body. The scent was much more pleasant than the soap he'd used in the hospital; it actually smelled quite nice. Maybe this was why Swan smelled so lovely in the Land Without Magic.

Not that she'd smelled _unpleasant_ back in the Enchanted Forest, or during their time in Neverland. It was just a different scent here, when she didn't have several days of travel and battle on her.

When he was finished, he turned the water back off and stepped out carefully before grabbing a towel from the rack beside the stall. As he dried himself, he realized that he indeed felt clean, much cleaner than he ever did after bathing. And there was no need to dispose of dirty bath water; the water from the shower had escaped down a drain, leaving the stall a little wet, but otherwise in the same state he'd found it in.

Credit where credit was due, he supposed. Swan hadn't been lying about this particular pleasure.

As he lay down in the bed (what on earth was in this mattress if not magic? Bloody hell), he permitted his thoughts to drift towards Swan and remain there. At least here, in the privacy of this room, he needn't worry about hiding his emotions or expressions, about letting his eyes linger for too long, about anyone confronting him on the subject.

They were home. Well, _they_ were home; he wasn't sure what home meant for _him_ anymore. But they were safe, at least. And _so_ much of that was due to Swan's fierceness and tenacity, her refusal to give up hope or admit defeat. She was a force to be reckoned with, but oh, how he wanted to let her sweep him away.

And she had, hadn't she? When she'd pressed her lips to his, claimed him as her loyal servant, lifted him up from the depths of darkness—

Were Liam here, Hook would be earning a slap to the back of his head, followed by a kind-hearted lecture on being overly dramatic. He grinned. "I think you would have liked her, brother," he whispered, before settling in and letting sleep take over.

There was an insistent knocking on his door the following morning. He'd awakened already, early riser that he was, and he was halfway through dressing himself when the visitor made themselves known. Or visitors—he opened the door to find Snow White and David. "Good morning, Highnesses," he said. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"David mentioned you were staying," Snow White said.

"Well, just that you weren't leaving immediately," the prince clarified.

"Either way, we also wanted to thank you for all your help," the princess continued. "You could have left us behind, but you didn't. You came back with the bean, you brought us to Neverland, you saved David, you helped us save Henry …" She took a deep breath as if to reset herself. "Anyway, the least we can do to thank you is to help you adjust to Storybrooke a bit."

He licked his lips nervously. "Aye, well, I'm glad I could help keep a family intact. No more thanks are necessary."

"Will you just take a look?" David asked impatiently, and Snow White held up a small bag, outfitted with ribbons.

Inside were two very strange objects. First, there was a box covered in illustrations and words. And the second was a black stick. He looked at the two royals in confusion.

Snow White spoke first, grabbing the stick. "We don't use kohl here," she said. But that made no sense—she herself was _clearly_ wearing kohl on her upper lids. "Well, some people in other parts of the world do, but most people here use this stuff instead." She pulled and a small part of the stick came off in her hand, she held up what was left of the stick, and he could see a rounded bit of black cosmetic sticking out.

She replaced the piece she'd broken off (some sort of cover), and showed him the other end of the stick. "If you need more, you just twist this, and more will come out. Even if you use this every day, you probably won't need a new one for several months."

"Thank you, milady." She handed the stick to him, and he brought it closer to read the letters along the side. _Eye Pencil, Waterproof, Black._

The prince grabbed the box and gestured for him to follow him to the bathroom, while Snow White waited behind. "This actually took some work to find," he said, as though Hook should be thanking him profusely. "You, uh, obviously shave some of your beard, but you need a trimmer for the rest of it, and it's hard to find a good combo."

"A what?" Very little of what David said made any sense.

"Here, hold on." The prince opened up the box and pulled out a ridiculous metallic contraption, which included a long, black rope that the man attached quite literally to the wall. "This is a beard trimmer and electric razor combination," he explained, a little more patiently. "I charged it up a bit before we came over this morning—uh, it runs on electricity but needs to be connected to a source to gain enough power to work without being connected."

"I'll probably need a repeat explanation for that at some point, mate, but go on."

David nodded. "Okay, so when you're not using it, just leave it plugged in like this. When you want to use it, you just remove it from the base." Sure enough, the prince picked up the instrument, leaving the base, still attached to the wall, behind. "To turn it on, you press this button here." And the machine buzzed into life.

"If you want to shave, you take off this plastic piece." The machine was still grinding away as the prince removed what appeared to be the top. Underneath, the machinery was gnashing and whirring. "And then you just—here, I'll just show you, even though I already shaved this morning."

And before Hook could stop him, the prince raised the contraption to his own neck. "Oy, careful, mate!" That thing could tear out his throat! After all the efforts made to save the man, it seemed irresponsible to let him off himself his first day back in Storybrooke.

"It's fine," the prince replied evenly, and he rubbed the strange device against his skin. "It's not a straight razor; it doesn't cut into your skin. Here, you try it." He handed the device over. "Do it over the sink," he instructed.

That was easy, at least, so that he could also stare into the mirror and watch what he was doing. But the man was asking him to put a shaving device _to his neck._ He _was_ a survivor, but part of the reason why was that he didn't fall for such ridiculous ploys.

"I have a gun, Hook," the prince said firmly, clearly reading his mind. "If I wanted to kill you, there are easier ways."

"Fair enough." And he pressed the device gently to his neck, at a region where he preferred to have no beard. It felt strange, but not painful.

"You have to move it around a little," the prince instructed, and Hook did so. He watched in awe as the short, wiry stubble began to fall down into the sink below.

"Bloody hell."

"It's a beard trimmer, too, though," David reminded him. He took the device back and fitted the top on it again. Meanwhile, Hook stared at his reflection; there was now a spot on his neck that was freshly shaven, without the need for any sort of preparation, or even _water._ And holding the machinery to his skin had required none of the delicate touch necessary to avoid cutting oneself with a straight razor. "Hook?"

"Aye, apologies."

"See, this thing keeps the razor far enough away from your face that it doesn't shave your beard off completely. Give it a try. Just sort of …" he gestured, "run it down down your beard."

The world could think him vain, but somehow, the prospect of ruining his facial hair seemed even more alarming than that of inadvertently killing himself while shaving. But when the prince gestured again, he reasoned that perhaps the man knew what he was talking about, and of course, in the event of worst-case scenario, he was still devilishly handsome while clean-shaven. And the beard would grow back.

To his surprise, and delight, the device worked as promised—the beard left behind was much neater, without being too short. "Bloody hell. Again."

David smirked. "Figured you'd appreciate it. Anyway, we're going to grab breakfast. You should, too, when you're done. I recommend the pancakes."

"Aye. Thanks, mate." The prince nodded before leaving the bathroom and exiting the premises with his wife.

It was strange, receiving such a gift. Not that he was ungrateful to receive such thanks; after all, going to Neverland had meant giving up his revenge, and risking his life to stand against Pan. It was a tad embarrassing, to be sure; he never knew how to receive such compliments.

But what made it all the more strange was the tacit acknowledgement—or, more accurately, the _assumption_ —that he was staying in Storybrooke.

He shook his head to clear it. He needed to finish dressing so he could seek out a meal and figure out what to do next.

Back in the bathroom, he removed the strange cap from the trimmer and finished shaving his neck. He'd been a little incorrect before in his observation that the device left skin entirely unharmed; he noticed that there was some redness and irritation, especially if he pressed too hard. But that shouldn't be difficult to adjust to next time, and perhaps one of the dwarves wouldn't mind giving him a few helpful tips.

The cap back on, he finished trimming his beard, a much easier process. Even centuries of experience hadn't left him with a beard so evenly trimmed; this was truly magical technology if he'd ever encountered it. He placed the trimmer back on its base and rinsed out the sink (he wasn't sure if this was the correct course of action, but then again, David _had_ led him here deliberately for this task. And it was always good to be tidy).

He glanced at his devilishly handsome reflection and smirked; there was just one thing missing. He retrieved the eye pencil from the dresser, where he'd left it, and returned to the bathroom, where the mirror was slightly better lit.

He removed the cap and stared at the bit of cosmetic sticking out. Now what? Should he use it as he might use a writing utensil? Very well.

Oh!

The pencil ran over his lids so much more smoothly than he'd expected, and the line was much more even than it had ever been before. He'd hardly had to exert any pressure either. He stared at the pencil again— _and_ it was waterproof?

Within seconds, his eyes were lined and appropriately smudged. He looked every bit the pirate he was. And all he had to do to put away the cosmetic was to replace the cap. Brilliant.

Leaving the trimmer and eye pencil behind in the bathroom, he returned to the bedroom and finished dressing; the prince and princess hadn't caught him unclothed, but he had a feeling that the Widow Lucas would send him right back upstairs if he tried to come downstairs without his boots on. And of course, his waistcoat and greatcoat were necessary for him to feel like himself.

He took a moment to appraise himself in the mirror and appreciate the full effect before heading downstairs. There he was, Captain Hook, one of the most feared and respected pirates, looking every inch the handsome scoundrel he was. He chuckled; Swan's parents had inadvertently made it even easier for him to be irresistible to their daughter.

The chuckle caught in his throat. Except he would need to be irresistible from afar. He'd promised to give Bae a chance.

Well, that didn't mean he had to drab himself down.

With a nod to himself, he exited his room and went in search of these _pancakes_ Dave had mentioned.


	4. Memories (3x11, 12)

**Hook + bookstore (specifically the Strand)**

 **Thanks to scapeartist for the suggestion!**

* * *

Hook wasn't sure _what_ was the worst part of this bloody mess he had found himself in.

Was it that he had to relinquish his beloved ship to that blackguard Blackbeard?

Was it that there was _yet another_ curse to be dealt with?

Was it that True Love's Kiss had failed?

Was it that he'd taken a knee to his privates?

Perhaps it was that he was back in this _city._

Even if this exit from this damned place a year ago hadn't been pleasant, he'd been relieved to be _out._ Away from the fumes and the noise and the crowds.

And now he was back.

He angrily kicked at a rock in his path. Why couldn't this be a little bit _easier?_ Why must it be like _this?_

He wearily allowed himself to be shuffled along with the crowds. It wasn't as though he had any sort of direction anyway. He had a feeling that returning to Swan's dwelling would result in her alerting the authorities; it certainly was unlikely to engender any trust.

A quick pat to one of his pockets reassured him that at least he still had the vial of memory potion. But it was just the single dose; he wasn't even sure it would be enough for _one_ person. It was why he'd tried that tack in the first place—if he could have restored Swan's memory with a kiss, then they would have had a chance to give Henry the potion.

In retrospect, he should have known Swan would react the way she had. Even on her better days, the woman wasn't keen on letting strangers kiss her. Now, she would trust him even less; he was now the stranger who'd tried to force himself on her, as opposed to a harmless, mysterious man who was just asking her to take a leap of faith.

But he'd … he'd just been _so happy to see her._

All of the words he'd planned to say had simply fallen out of his head as soon as he'd laid eyes on her. All thoughts of calmly asking to come in to discuss her parents, all thoughts of the ways he'd get her to question her false memories, all thoughts of finding a way to rope Henry, Truest Believer that he was, into helping, just _evaporated._

And all he could think of was that he couldn't wait one more moment, couldn't stand _one more moment_ of her staring at him as though she'd never met him in her life, as though he meant nothing to her, nothing good or bad or in between. Just nothing. And so the kiss that was _supposed_ to wait until he'd earned her trust simply _couldn't_.

Perhaps it would have failed regardless. But that moment they'd shared at the town line—it _had_ to have meant something. Didn't it?

It was at that moment that he took notice of his surroundings; the noise and odor of the city seemed lessened, and he realized he was standing amid greenery. Had he stumbled into another realm?

No. A quick check around him revealed that everyone was still dressed the same as before, using the same technology as well. And right behind him was the city; he'd simply stepped into a large public garden. But what a relief that was, to find a breathable part of this wretched place. He found an empty bench and immediately sank down onto it.

What was he to do now?

Even if he were a man inclined to give up, and he most certainly was _not_ such a man, that would be no simple task anyway. He was alone here in the Land Without Magic; it wasn't as though he could simply head back to the _Jolly Roger_ and go back to his pirate's life—

His heart ached so suddenly at the thought of his ship. It simply wasn't _fair_ , that he would have to surrender her to Blackbeard. The villain had delighted in Hook's anguish and desperation; it had been terrible enough to lose the _Jolly Roger,_ but to do so in such a degrading manner had been humiliating.

No, he didn't _lose_ the _Jolly Roger._ He had to stop thinking like that. He had made a fair trade; magic beans were rare to the point of absurdity and it was the only method available to him to get to Swan.

Regardless of whether or not she returned his affections, with or without her memories, he had to keep her safe. Her and Henry.

How was he to _do_ all this though? He had to convince Emma and Henry to go to Storybrooke. And take him with them; he'd lost the map he'd made last year, and without it, he had no clue how to return to town. And no clue how to transport himself there either, although commandeering a ship wasn't entirely out of the question.

What was out of the question, though, was remaining here. After all, if he was to be trapped in the Land Without Magic, he'd prefer to be in Storybrooke. Even if no one remembered him initially, Swan would break the curse, and then he could remain among people who understood who he was.

People, he recalled a little shamefully, whom he'd abandoned almost as soon as they'd all landed back in the Enchanted Forest. But what choice did he have, for the sake of his broken heart? For too long, his life had been one long lesson in the futility of hope, and losing Swan from his life permanently (at least, as far as he'd known at the time) had solidified that belief.

And how could he spend time with David and Snow without thinking of their daughter? She had her mother's eyes and chin and ferocity, and her father's tenacity and tact. To look at them and listen to them, Emma Swan split in two, was the worst agony he could have imagined.

(At least, that he could have imagined at the time. He had been wrong. To see his love's eyes devoid of all recognition, to see him as a stranger, had been worse.)

It had been crucial, in retrospect, that he had fled and tried to return to his old life. Had he remained behind, the curse would have taken him, too, and then who knew _what_ would have happened? If he'd stayed, he never would have recovered the _Jolly Roger;_ without his ship, he would never have escaped the Enchanted Forest before being swept up in the curse.

But bloody hell, he wished he could have picked Regina's brain about the nature of the curse she'd placed on Emma and Henry. Had he known there was the slightest possibility that he would be back here, that he would see her again and have the opportunity to remind her of who she was (of who _he_ was), he would have asked.

Regina might not have answered; she had been crushed by the belief she would never see Henry again. But perhaps Snow White could have given a rousing speech about hope and encouraged the queen to discuss the possibility.

But no—then he would have stayed behind and worked with them to find a way back to Emma and Henry, and then he would have been cursed all the same.

He wracked his brain. From the message he'd received, he knew this was a repeat of the same dark curse that had brought everyone to Storybrooke. He knew that during the first curse, time had frozen, only restarting when the Savior arrived. After all, it was a few months before the curse broke that he came back to himself in the Enchanted Forest, to find that nearly three decades had passed without him realizing it.

The dwarves had provided some information about the curse during the single night in Storybrooke where everything had been fine, and he'd been an accepted member of the little band of heroes. They had mostly wanted to tell him all about the benefits and idiosyncrasies of the Land Without Magic, and so information about the nature of the curse had been sparse.

But there had been one interesting occurrence that had raised the subject.

As they had been talking and drinking, a blonde woman he didn't know had entered the diner, a handsome blond man on her arm; she'd approached David, who'd smiled and hugged her. He'd asked the dwarves who the woman was.

"Oh, that's Kathryn," one of the dwarves had explained. "During the curse, she was married to Charming."

"Come again?" he'd asked.

"Regina's curse kept him and Snow apart," Grumpy said. "But even though Charming thought he was married to Kathryn, he still fell in love with Snow."

"How?" he'd asked. "Wouldn't the curse prevent that?"

Grumpy shrugged. "It was supposed to. But when Emma showed up, people started changing. Caring about the stuff they'd cared about before. It was like she reminded them about what was important to them."

"That, and Snow read Charming their story while he was in a coma," another dwarf interrupted. "It woke him up, hearing her read from the storybook about how they met."

The storybook was gone now. Swan and Henry had left everything behind in order to escape Pan's curse; they'd hardly had time for goodbyes at the town line before the purple smoke swallowed them up and dragged them back to the Enchanted Forest. Had Henry tried to take the book with him, it would have been too late: Emma would have been dragged back along with them, and that poor boy would have been left, stranded in the wilderness, with hardly any memories of his past.

But perhaps there were other ways to jog a memory. He just had to find something that would bring back either Henry's memories or Swan's. That's all he needed; whoever regained their memories first could help him convince the other to drink the potion. And then they could return to Storybrooke and see what fresh hell awaited them this time.

He certainly wouldn't find any answers here, though, as lovely as it was to be in a more peaceful place. With renewed hope, he lifted himself off the bench and strode back into the filthy city to find a reminder.

Reasoning that he was less likely to feel overwhelmed with desperation if he were in a more familiar part of the city, he began by walking back in the direction of Swan's abode. He had no intention of confronting her again so soon, of course, but it wouldn't do to get lost. It was a long walk, but then again, he'd been lost in thought and misery when he'd wandered into the public garden. That had a way of distracting from the passage of time.

A few streets beyond Swan's home, a sizable storefront caught his eye and held it. It was a bookstore, oddly named (Strand? What did that mean?). But more importantly, it boasted a variety of tomes: old, rare, and new. What if there was another copy of the storybook? Surely it would exist here, in a bookshop of this size.

He'd been to plenty of bookshops and libraries over his long life. The former were usually tiny, especially since the Enchanted Forest wasn't teeming with printing presses. The libraries were often more expansive; he recalled late nights studying, surrounded by books, when he was learning how to be an naval officer. He also recalled, with a smirk, a few stolen nights in royal libraries, pressing a noblewoman up against the stacks.

Probably not the sort of thing to ever mention to Swan, now that he thought of it. Unless she'd be into that sort of thing— _no_ , he needed to focus.

He'd determined through observations and both inductive and deductive reasoning that mass production was standard in this part of the Land Without Magic. Clothing and food could be purchased, already made; it did not surprise him that the same extended to books. But nothing could have prepared him for the immense size of this bookshop, larger than almost any library he'd set foot in.

Like every other part of the city, the shop was filled with people. But the scent of books was a small comfort; it was the same as it was in every other realm he'd traveled to, and it reminded him of his purpose.

"Can I help you, sir?" A young woman, wearing an indicator of employment in the shop, had approached him. She was eyeing his attire rather suspiciously.

"Apologies, lass," he said, recalling his first visit to this city. "I've just gotten off an entertaining job and have yet to return home to change into more suitable clothing."

This seemed to mollify her, and her smile relaxed into something more natural. "Well, that's a _great_ costume," she said politely.

"Thank you. And, ah, yes, actually, I could use your assistance. I'm looking for what I expect might be a rare book."

"Very exciting," she said. "Let me show you our rare book selection; it's really substantial."

He followed her through the winding pathways of books, glancing at the stacks as he passed. Some of the shelves had books that were uniform in style, with spines that boasted the same colors and fonts, and many that were the same height and material. But other shelves contained a riot of books of all shapes and sizes—some several inches thick and others only a fraction, some squat and some tall, with clear or illegible titles. They passed patron after patron browsing, and he wondered how on earth they knew how to find what they were after.

Once they reached a less crowded section of the shop, the woman brought him over to a strange device. He'd seen similar ones before—the Storybrooke library and the sheriff's station desks each contained one of the boxes, and the private investigator he'd hired to find Swan had used one. And so he watched with fascination as the woman began poking at the alphabet board with her fingers, and the images on the box changed.

"What can you tell me about what you're looking for?" she asked.

"It's called 'Once Upon a Time.'" He thought back to that evening at the diner, when Pan, wearing Henry's skin, had flipped through the massive tome. "It's a large brown book, perhaps a foot and a half wide. Beautifully illustrated set of fairy tales."

"Do you know the author?" she asked as she continued punching at the board. Words appeared on different parts of the box.

"No, unfortunately I don't. But I would know it when I saw it."

"All right, that's fine," she said patiently. "Okay, um, I'm not seeing anything matching that description exactly, but if you give me a few minutes, I can get some help from my supervisor." She smiled reassuringly at him. "You might want to check out some of the collection while you wait, though."

With nothing else to do, he accepted her suggestion and wandered around this particular area of the shop. As he did so, a title caught his eye.

 _Peter Pan and Wendy._

Oh bloody hell.

He couldn't help but pull the tome down; it seemed to be in excellent condition, at least, so he felt no guilt for handling this particular rare book. He began to skim as best he could. Perhaps this could help Henry regain his memories.

It was too difficult to interpret, given that nothing seemed to be remotely similar to the story he knew—the story he'd lived. By the time he'd determined that apparently, his name in this version of the tale was James Hook (and truly, that seemed ridiculous; what were the odds that a man _named_ Hook would end up with a hook in place of a hand?), and that he'd lost his hand to Pan, who'd fed the appendage to a crocodile, it was clear to him that this book would do nothing for Henry except provide him with inaccurate information.

"Sir?" Now a man was approaching him. "Hey there; I'm Andy. Cindy told me you were looking for a particular rare book?"

"Aye," he said, slipping _Peter Pan_ back onto the bookshelf. "It's called 'Once Upon a Time.'"

"She mentioned. I don't think we have exactly what you're looking for, but I managed to pull a couple books that might work."

Hook bit his tongue; his first instinct was to remark that he wasn't looking for a _similar_ book, and that he didn't appreciate having his time wasted. But then again, these folks had spent several minutes trying to help him; he didn't want to waste their time either.

As expected, though, none of the books, which were mostly fairy tale collections, would work. One in particular, a gorgeously illustrated book that involved characters from various stories meeting up and interacting, had seemed like a potential winner, but upon further reading, the plot took a nasty turn. And there were too many players missing: Snow White was barely mentioned, Charming was nothing like his true self, Red Riding Hood and her grandmother weren't recognizable, and he, Regina, and Rumplestiltskin were absent entirely.

He thanked both Andy and Cindy profusely before walking out empty-handed.

Well, mostly empty-handed. Though he hadn't left with anything physical, hope burned in his chest. There were other booksellers in this city. They might have the book. And so he continued his journey.

As he walked, a sense of familiarity overtook him. How that was possible, in this massive metal city, he wasn't sure; to gather his wits, he moved towards the buildings lining the walkway, out of the way of other passersby. He remembered what had happened last year, when he'd stopped in the middle of the path, and that disrespectful fellow had nearly knocked him over, and the dreamshade along with him. He

Oh, _that_ was it. He'd stumbled upon the very same location where he'd nearly achieved his revenge.

For the first time in a long time, he recalled how he had lived for centuries for that single moment, and how little it had mattered since he'd thrown his lot in with Swan and her family.

And now, he was back at the scene of the crime, as it were, but with a fresh understanding of the events that had transpired. At the time, he hadn't known the Crocodile had been looking for Baelfire, or that the man walking with Swan was the boy himself, all grown up. He hadn't known that Henry was Baelfire's—no, Neal's, he wanted to be called Neal—Neal's son, or even that Emma had had a history with him in the first place.

When that unpleasant lass, Tamara, had freed him from the storage room, she'd let on that this was where Neal lived, explaining why she, his fiancée, had access to the closet.

This was Neal's home, or it had been a year ago. Swan and Henry had been here. Perhaps there was something here that could help break the curse on one of them.

Inside the building, in the very space he'd sunk his poisoned hook into the demon, he discovered several boxes and buttons labeled with names. What was Neal's full name here again? He couldn't recall. But none of the labels was anything remotely resembling Neal's possible name.

Though there was one that was unlabeled. Number 407. Uninhabited perhaps?

He made quick work of the lock (because he had his lockpick on him, of course; he even carried extras after what had happened in the hospital) and began roaming the halls for that particular number. And once he found it, it was even easier to break into than the door downstairs.

The living space he found was covered in dust; it had clearly been uninhabited for a great while and smelled slightly moldy. A quick check of the place revealed no one at all, in the living area, sleeping area, or the bathroom. He felt confident that if this were Neal's apartment, no one had been in here in a long time.

A device on a chest of drawers caught his eye. The object itself held no meaning for him, but it had attached to it a thick, woven strap.

With Henry's name on it.

This was what he needed. But bringing it to Swan or to Henry wouldn't mean anything, not necessarily. Either one of them could argue that whatever this item was, he'd simply purchased one with Henry's name on it; it wasn't as though the boy's name was unique.

But—if she knew that the object was in Neal's apartment, would Swan believe?

On a table in the living area, he found several envelopes, all bearing Neal's name (Cassidy—had he forgotten it, or never known in the first place?). He fumbled for a piece of parchment and a pen from his coat (he would have to find a shop that sold ink; he was running low), jotting down what he recognized as an address, thanks to the private investigator who'd supplied him with Swan's.

This would be easier, he reasoned. He could convince her to come to this location, perhaps by piquing her curiosity regarding her parents and the truth of her origins. She would find this strange device belonging to Henry.

She would remember. Then Henry would follow in short order. And then they'd be off to Storybrooke, ready to break the curse.

He placed the new address in his pocket, headed back downstairs, and began the long walk back to Swan.


	5. Shotgun (3x12)

**Hook + modern transportation**

 **Thanks to dramawiie for suggesting modern transportation and euphoric-melancholyy for suggesting first time in a car!**

 **And thank you everyone for your patience, since I was unable to update last week.**

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Hook stared at the back of the vessel, unsure of why the sight of it filled him with dread and helplessness. After all, it was just a piece of machinery, and while he was still new to the Land Without Magic, he felt that he was now accustomed to such things as _cars._ But there was something about Swan's car that left him with a very unpleasant feeling he couldn't quite place.

"I know _that_ look," Henry said as he arrived, carrying his rucksack. Was it called a rucksack here? "Avery's mom won't even let him ride in it."

"Pardon?"

"Henry, stop," Swan warned. She was carrying one last bag, and he was pleased to see she was wearing one of her leather jackets again. At least something was right in the world, as it were. "Let's get the bags in the trunk, okay?"

"I'll just keep my backpack with me. Shotgun!"

"No, come on, kid."

"But you said it was an eight hour trip!"

"It is, but I have to drive and Killian isn't sitting in the back."

"Ugh, _fine."_ And with that, Henry pulled open a door, hopped in, and shut the door behind him.

"Have you ridden in one of these yet?" Swan asked quietly. Hook wasn't sure how soundproof cars were, but from the volume of her voice, it seemed as though she was concerned Henry would overhear their conversation.

"I think I may have," he admitted. "Tamara somehow managed to bring me back to Storybrooke. I was unconscious for the majority of the journey, but I awoke in a strange metal box that felt as though it were moving."

"Well, this should be better," she reassured him. "To get in, you're going to go in the same door Henry did, but you'll sit in the front. See the handle?" She pointed and he nodded. "You're going to pull on it like this." She gestured. "I'll do the same on my side. You can watch and see how I get in and how I close the door behind me. And you can watch me put on my seatbelt."

"Seatbelt?"

"Yeah, it's—Henry's staring at us, let's just go."

"Right." He took one last glance at the back of the car.

"You can ignore Henry's comment," she said gently. "It's really pretty safe."

"I'm not worried about that."

"Then what's wrong?"

He shook his head, and she shrugged before gesturing for him to go around to the right side of the car.

He wished he could identify what he was feeling, or even why he was feeling it.

He did as Swan had instructed, and sure enough, the door came unlatched and was easily pulled open, giving him plenty of space to move inside. He watched Swan first, as she stepped in sideways and sat at the same time.

It was clearly a well-practiced move on her part; his own attempt was a little less graceful. He'd been trying to act with similar speed, so as not to arouse Henry's suspicions, and while he succeeded in sitting down in his designated seat, he was unable to do so without hitting his head gently against the frame of the car door. Henry snickered before Swan silenced him with a glare.

Closing the door was easier, though Hook made sure that his entire person, including his attire, was out of the way before he did so. And he felt that Swan did a very good job of demonstrating the use of the seatbelt without being obvious that she was actually _trying_ to demonstrate.

He was a tad uneasy as he thought about why he might be required to strap himself into the seat. After all, if one of Henry's friends wasn't even allowed in this particular vehicle, wouldn't that mean—

Swan jammed something into the console in front of her, and with a twist of her wrist, the car roared to life. The sound wasn't much quieter than it was from the exterior—would it make such a racket the entire time they were traveling?

"All right, here we go," she said, and he wondered if she was speaking to him or to herself.

And then the car began to move.

It was terrifying.

The _Jolly Roger_ was the fastest ship in all the realms, due in equal parts to expert craftsmanship, enchanted wood, and his own superior skills as captain. Sailing aboard, he'd moved faster than this; it had taken him half as long to sail from Storybrooke to New York as Swan had said it would take to make the trip in reverse.

But somehow, even if this wasn't the fastest he'd ever traveled, it _felt_ as though it were. And not in an exhilarating way. This was _normal_ here? He nervously glanced back at Henry when he thought the lad might not notice he was being observed; the boy was staring out the window, looking entirely calm.

Swan swerved. She stopped abruptly and then immediately picked up speed again. Sometimes, she brought the front of the vehicle so close to the one ahead of her that Hook was convinced, beyond any doubt, that they would collide. He regretted for the first time in over a century that he did not own a shirt that would cover the part of his chest he knew would carry a bruise from the seatbelt.

"Ugh," Swan said disgustedly. They had been stopped for a few moments, and while he was trying to enjoy those moments, he was entirely frozen with stress anticipating Swan's next move. "I don't understand how there's such bad traffic right now."

"People are going to work, Mom," Henry said.

"I work," she replied, glaring at the sea of cars in front of them. "I drive here all the time. It's usually not _this_ bad, even this early." She sighed heavily, which did nothing to release the tension he could see she was holding.

It was exhausting to wait in that sea of vehicles, even with Swan's quiet reassurance that the trip would improve once they were out of the city. But he was not used to being in such an enclosed space for such a long time, and even with (especially with) stale air blowing out of vents in the console, he felt stifled, suffocated, and nauseated.

At least it became easier for him to predict when Swan would move the car forward, and he grew used to the speed with which she did so, and the force with which she'd halt. He did wish she wouldn't wait until such a late moment to do the latter, but upon examination of the other cars in the vicinity, her methods were clearly typical of … captains? Pilots? What did one call oneself when operating a car? He turned to her and opened his mouth to ask before remembering Henry was sitting in the back. He quickly turned back to look out the window in front of him.

"What?" Henry asked. Clearly, the unasked question had not gone unnoticed.

"I, ah … was just going to ask your mother how she was faring," he lied. "She seems a little anxious."

"I'm fine," Swan replied. She glanced at him, and he could see she understood that he was lying for Henry's sake. "Just hate traffic."

Traffic, he assumed, must refer to the number of cars on the roadway, impeding their progress. He resisted the urge to point out that technically, they were a part of said traffic, if that were the case. But perhaps it meant something else.

Damn whoever had sent only enough memory potion for one. That he was unable to ask Swan simple questions about the realm was only adding to his anxiety.

"So," Henry said slowly, before Swan brought the car to another sudden stop. "What's your case about, Killian?"

As he began to quickly form a lie— _looking for my brother, no, a friend_ —Swan answered instead. "Can't talk about the case, kid. You know the rules."

"Okay," Henry said, his tone indicating that he wasn't done prying. "So you're from England?"

Swan's glance in his direction indicated that he could answer in the affirmative. "Aye, I am."

"London?"

Swan was gripping the wheel with both hands, but she looked at him as she gently tapped her left index finger a single time. Ah, a code.

"That's right."

"Do you like living there?"

Single tap. "It's all right."

"I heard it's huge, like, even bigger than New York."

Single tap. "Aye, that it is."

Henry seemed bored with the simple answers, but what could be done about it? Hook had no idea what England or London were; little did the lad know that he knew more than Hook himself did.

"So why are you in the US?"

"Henry, come on." Swan was clearly losing her patience with both the other cars (traffic, he reminded himself) and Henry's questions. "Didn't you bring your phone _and_ your DS?"

"Yeah, but you said it was going to be a long ride. I don't want to kill my batteries."

"You can use the car charger for your phone," she replied, as though this weren't something she often let him do.

"Really?"

"Yep."

"You're gonna let me play games the _whole_ time?"

"Yep."

Henry paused; Hook imagined the boy was probably looking at his mother with skepticism. "All right." And within a few moments, all that could be heard from the rear of the vehicle was an intermittent tapping noise and the fidgeting of a budding adolescent.

After what felt like hours, they'd made some forward progress, and the number of cars on the roadway began to thin. Those that remained, including their own, gained speed, and as time wore on, as the city began to dwindle around them, that speed became greater and more constant.

Soon, they were flying across the road at an alarming pace, with trees and meadows appearing as frequently as other roadways and buildings. He saw that Emma's posture was relaxing a bit, now that this traffic business seemed to be done with.

He even found himself loosening up a bit, as he became more accustomed to the feeling of moving so quickly over land. It helped very much to be out in the open, where he could focus on the horizon. His nausea subsided, and he was able to take in the scenery a little, and appreciate the similarities and differences between this land and the realms he was familiar with. The edifices and signage dotting the countryside certainly reminded him that he was not home (but what _was_ home anyway, besides the open seas aboard the _Jolly Roger?_ And _had_ that felt like home those last several months?). But otherwise, it was easier to believe he wasn't entirely lost in this strange place, and that perhaps it wasn't so strange after all.

Sometimes, they traveled through more densely populated regions, though none that remotely resembled New York City. Each time, he couldn't help but compare these cities and towns to Storybrooke—this one was bigger, that one smaller, this one with more businesses, this one with more roadways.

Storybrooke would have been his home, had Pan's curse not ruined everything. Wouldn't it have been? Hadn't he been planning to stay? Is this why he continued to think of it as the proper, correct place for him to be here in the Land Without Magic? Or was it simply because, assuming the residents still had their memories, he would fit right in without having to hide who he was? He anxiously risked a glance at Henry, who was engrossed in his device.

He loathed himself for resenting the boy's presence. He hardly knew the lad, after all, and hadn't even met him until they were all safely aboard the _Jolly Roger_ , when Henry's mothers returned his heart to him. And they'd no chance to interact after that, with Pan's curse barreling towards them.

But this was the son of two people for whom he cared deeply. There was Baelfire—Neal, Neal, Neal, he wanted to be called Neal—whom he'd wanted to raise as his own son, first with Milah by his side, and then in her memory. Neal had risen to the occasion as best he could upon discovering he was a father. He'd come to Storybrooke, he'd found a way to Neverland, and once they'd been returned to the Enchanted Forest, he'd gone off to find a way back to his family. As ill-advised as the plan seemed, given that it involved trying to resurrect the Dark One, Hook could appreciate the man's drive.

(After all, a man unwilling to fight for what he wanted deserved what he got. And what had _Hook_ been doing during the past year?)

And then, of course, there was Swan. Courageous, stubborn, fierce, passionate, compassionate, beautiful _Emma._

To resent her son's presence, all because it made it impossible for him to ask silly questions about the Land Without Magic, was dishonorable to the highest degree.

As the sun rose high in the sky, Swan maneuvered the car towards the right, taking them on a little side road marked with a lot of strange signage. Soon, they arrived at a small business with odd outdoor equipment, which she brought the car right up to before turning it off. "All right," she said, a little brightly. "I'm gonna fill up the car. I was thinking we'd stop at a drive-through for lunch, so this is a good time to use the bathroom and stretch your legs." He wasn't sure if she was speaking to Henry or both of them.

Henry moved first. "Okay, but can I get a chocolate bar? Post-lunch dessert?"

"Sure, hold on." Swan pulled out some currency and handed it over to Henry before undoing her seatbelt (how had she done that? He didn't quite see), opening her door, and pushing her own seat forward so Henry could exit. The lad then bounded out of the car and around the corner of the small building nearby.

Once he was out of sight, Swan pushed the seat back and sat back down. "Sorry, had to get out to let him out. Downside to having a two-door car. Anyway, how are you holding up?"

"I'm entirely fine, Swan," he replied evenly.

"Really?" she asked, voice filled with doubt.

He chuckled. "I'm pleased that we seem to be done with what you referred to as traffic," he admitted.

"Traffic is when there are a lot of cars on the road," she explained. "It's like … a state of being, I guess? It depends on the day, the time of day, any events going on. Obviously, you move faster when there's little to none."

"I gathered."

"You should get out and stretch your legs. I have to get gas." He furrowed his brow at her. Gas? "Uh, fuel, for the car. It runs on oil."

"Oh." Well, that was interesting. He'd assumed it just _went._

"Yeah, and I have to get out of the car to do that. If you need to use the bathroom, it should be well-marked, somewhere along the back of that building, or inside. You can always ask Henry or the cashier."

"My thanks," he said. "How do I get out of this, though?" He gestured at the seatbelt.

She nodded and reached over, and he gulped at how close her hands were to his lap. She pressed a piece of the belt, where he'd originally inserted the metal bit, and the thing came undone. "There you go! You open the door by pulling that lever."

He did so, and it popped open effortlessly. "Again, thank you."

Stretching his legs felt wonderful, and the residual nausea he'd felt since they'd begun their journey finally disappeared. While he had no urgent need to relieve himself, Swan's brief discussion with Henry seemed to imply that they would not be stopping again for some time, and he had no desire to find himself with a full bladder, trapped inside the car indefinitely. As he approached the small building, Henry appeared, triumphantly waving something in his hand.

"I got some for you, too, Killian," he said, showing off his purchase. He held three rectangles of foil, wrapped in colorful paper.

"Thanks, lad," he replied. "Perhaps in the car," he added, when Henry tried to give him one of the bars. Henry nodded in understanding. "Can you point me in the direction of the bathroom?"

"Oh, yeah, it's just inside." Henry pointed at a large glass-panelled door. "It's actually pretty clean, and you don't even have to buy anything to use it."

"Excellent," he replied. "I'll be back momentarily then."

He approached the building and noticed, as he did so, that there did not appear to be any sort of handle or knob on the doors. But Henry had just been inside. How had he entered and exited?

The answer was magic, or something like it. As Hook stepped up to the door, it slid open, and remained so. Not wanting to seem as astonished as he was, he kept his face impassive and strode in, as though he'd been expecting the glass to move out of the way automatically.

The man behind the tall counter directed him, when asked of its location, to the bathroom, which was, as Henry had mentioned, reasonably clean. He used it quickly and, upon exiting, found Swan paying the man behind the counter before walking in his direction.

"I, uh." She blushed and pointed behind him. "I need to use the bathroom, too. Car's unlocked, so you can just get in. Oh, and Henry got chocolate for all three of us."

"Oh, that's what he was showing me." He didn't care much if the attendant thought it odd that he was unaware of what chocolate looked like in this realm. "That was thoughtful of him."

"It's _my_ money!" she said indignantly, although she was smiling. She then seemed to realize something, and the smile instantly disappeared. She blushed. "Anyway, bathroom?"

"Aye, apologies." He stepped aside to let her pass before heading back to the car. This time, he was ready for the glass door to open without being touched. And he didn't hit his head getting back into the car either.

They stopped again shortly after that, at what proudly labeled itself a "DRIVE-THRU," and Hook found himself politely choking down a strange, hot disk of beef wedged between round pieces of bread. He would have questioned what it was exactly that Swan was feeding him, but again, Henry's presence prevented such a conversation. And besides, it would have been ungentlemanly, given that Swan and Henry were both eating the same meal without complaint.

More of the countryside passed by as they ate, as they tossed their refuse into a strange, crackly bag Swan produced from a compartment in front of him, as Henry switched out one device for another that made a significant amount of noise. The nausea that had plagued him for the first leg of their journey mostly stayed at bay, and he could admit that the velocity of the car was a little exhilarating. Perhaps Swan could teach him how to captain one of these some day? It wouldn't be as nice as having his own ship again, but it would make getting around Storybrooke a tad easier.

Then again, watching as Swan kept one hand on the wheel while moving a lever in between them, maybe this was a two-handed operation. He tried not to feel too disappointed. After all, he'd managed to get around the town on his own two legs just fine a year ago. And he wasn't even sure that being able to operate a car was something everyone could do in the Land Without Magic; certainly there were plenty of people in New York who didn't, from what he'd observed.

That made him feel slightly less discouraged, though he wasn't sure why.

For supper, he was pleased and relieved that Swan brought them to an actual establishment where they could exit the car, sit, and eat a real meal. The fish was dry and the vegetables poorly seasoned, but it was a far cry better than whatever they'd eaten earlier. Not only was it superior in texture and flavor, but the difference extended to his gut as well; as a result of their earlier meal, he'd spent several long, somewhat embarrassing minutes in the bathroom shortly after they'd arrived at the tavern.

Soon after they left, darkness fell. Fortunately, Swan's car had bright lights on the front to illuminate the road, but he still felt anxious about the conditions. There were other cars on the road—enough to make it clear that driving at night was typical. But he couldn't help but think it must be more dangerous; he himself could hardly see.

After about an hour, the sounds from the back of the car, where Henry had been amusing himself with his myriad devices, ceased. Swan made a few glances into the mirror at the front of the car before saying, very quietly, "I think Henry's asleep."

He took the opportunity to turn to look; sure enough, the lad was slumped over in his seat, head resting against the window. "That looks extremely uncomfortable," he pointed out, keeping his voice just as soft. "Are you sure?"

"He's probably not faking, but he might wake up," she admitted. "So we can't talk about the case."

"But we can talk?"

"Yeah." She sighed.

"Was there anything in particular you wished to discuss?"

She was quiet for a moment. "I guess not."

He found it amusing sometimes, how she seemed so proud of her ability to discern lies from truth, and yet never seemed to realize just how easy she was to read. Swan likely had a great many things she wished to talk about, and at the very least, he was sure she was tired of the silence.

"How are you faring?"

"Huh? About what?"

"I don't know. Any of this, I suppose. I'm just asking how you are."

"Nervous," she admitted. "I wish you could tell me more about the cu—case."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, even if she wouldn't be able to see him do so. "I told you everything I know, Swan. The person to blame for lack of information is whoever sent me what little we have in the first place."

"I know," she said tersely, and she went silent.

A few minutes passed before he spoke to her again. "And with regards to last night?"

"What about last night?"

"Your … " He wasn't sure how to discuss the events on the rooftop without making Henry suspicious, if the lad were feigning sleep, or if he were to awaken mid-conversation. "Unpleasant revelation regarding someone you trusted." It would have to do.

Luckily, he'd gotten his point across. "I'm not feeling great about it. And the more I think about it, the angrier I get. But I guess there's one positive thing about it."

"And what's that?" His heart beat faster. Was she referring to him? That he'd been right about her memories, including affection for another man—himself?

"When I realized you might be right, and that I had to know for sure, I knew what I would be giving up. And I didn't _want_ to give any of it up." He stole a glance at her, but she was staring resolutely at the darkened road. "So now at least I know there was one thing I wasn't actually losing. It never existed to begin with."

He sank guiltily into his seat. When he'd badgered Swan atop that beanstalk about love being all too rare in her life, he'd done so without knowing just how hard he would fall for her. It had been a comment designed to poke and prod, to throw her off-balance so he could figure out what made the Savior tick. He'd needed to get to know her so he could stay allied with her, and reading her had been easy enough.

But now that he cared so deeply for her, it pained him to think about how she must feel. Emma Swan had grown up feeling so unloved and unwanted, another orphan just like him. She had found someone who had purported to love her, something that must have taken her ages to accept and believe.

Only for her to learn that she had never been loved in the first place.

"I'm sorry," was all he could say, though he wished he could say more. Because she'd been so afraid of losing a man who loved her, when in reality, that man was still here, sitting right beside her, for as long as she'd have him.

But even without the threat of Henry waking, to say such things to Emma Swan was to beg her to run in the other direction. And while there were moments where he wanted to be selfish, to just tell her and have it over with for the sake of his own feelings, it would be cruel to her. Right now, she needed him by her side, especially since they might be the only two souls to know about the curse. She needed to be able to rely on him, to trust him, to feel safe with him. She needed a friend and ally, and bloody hell, he would be that for her.

"It's fine," she said, much too lightly. "It really is. Like I said, it's hard to be upset about losing something you never had."

Before he could respond, a sign appeared in the darkness ahead of them.

Entering Storybrooke.


	6. Side By Side (3x13)

**Hook + cell phone**  
 **Hook + selfies**

 **Thank you to trueloveswanjones for suggesting iPhone camera/selfie, euphoric-melancholyy for suggesting cell phone/phone pictures, and darkswanthepirate for suggesting camera!**

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"Seriously? There's nothing I can do to convince you?"

"I'm not sure why you care as much as you do, to be honest. I'm not critical of _your_ attire."

"I'm not dressed like it's Halloween!"

"Hallo-what?"

It was the third time they had engaged in such a conversation. First, as he'd followed her back to her abode in New York, shortly after she'd regained her memories, Swan had suggested they stop by an apparel shop. He'd declined at the time, using her desire to speak privately about the situation as a reason to return to her home as soon as possible. It had worked, and she'd dropped the subject immediately.

The second time had been the following evening in Storybrooke. After Henry had gone to bed, they'd met with Snow White and David in the parlor at the Widow Lucas's establishment. Afterwards, David had asked if he might be interested in borrowing some of his clothes, but Hook had politely turned him down with a quip about the awkwardness of wearing another man's garments. Swan had questioned him about it after her parents had left, but she hadn't pressed the issue before she returned to the rooms she was sharing with Henry.

He'd mistakenly assumed, based on those two interactions, that Swan understood what "No, thank you" meant. Thinking back on their shared history, however, he wasn't sure why he'd assumed that. The woman was now in his rented room, standing in his personal space, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, demanding an explanation as to why he would not exchange his attire for that of this realm.

"It's this stupid made-up holiday where you dress up in—look, never mind. Can you at _least_ explain _why_ you won't consider it?"

"I don't see why I should, given that you haven't given me an explanation as to why this irks you so much."

She rolled her eyes, dropped her arms to her sides, and … bloody hell, did she actually stamp her foot? "Damnit, Hook! What's Henry going to think?"

"I've no idea," he replied. "Perhaps you're overestimating his interest."

"Yeah, like the world's nosiest twelve-year-old is going to stop wondering why this guy with one hand is dressed like some kind of stripper pirate."

He wasn't sure what a stripper pirate was, but if the remaining dwarves weren't too busy panicking over their dwindling numbers, he would ask them later. "Then tell him I'm a bit touched in the head," he suggested, his patience waning. "Or that I lost a wager. Or that I'm a bloody pirate captain and this is my normal attire. I'm not his parent, Swan; that's not my responsibility. Besides, the lad hasn't said anything to me on the issue since yesterday morning, and I believe both of us ended that line of inquiry effectively enough. Do you think he would be rude enough to ask again?"

"But why does it even matter? If you changed now, we could just say you had some kind of … I don't know, job where you had to dress like a pirate and you didn't have a chance to change."

"So tell him that."

"That only works if you go out and buy new clothes."

"So then _don't_ tell him that."

"Why do you insist on dressing like this?" She was practically shouting at this point, and he lost his temper.

"Because this is how I dress! You have _no_ say in this, Swan. I'm here to help you and your family—it's the very _reason_ I'm here—and if the least that I ask of you is to drop such an insignificant topic as my bloody _clothing_ , then perhaps you should consider obliging me!"

She didn't respond, though her face remained highly colored and she looked as though she were split between shame and indignance. For a moment, he thought she was thinking over her next words, but when she didn't speak and stared at the ground instead, he understood that the argument was over, at least for the time being.

Meanwhile, he was embarrassed himself. He was a bloody arse, losing his temper over something as trivial as his clothing. The truth was more complicated than he could convey to her, though, even if he wished to. While he understood that he might be trapped here in the Land Without Magic, this was Storybrooke. Magic abounded, businesses accepted Enchanted Forest currency, and his hook was a commonplace item. There was simply no reason that he should swap out his leathers for whatever passed as fashionable here, except to please Swan.

And while he wanted to please her—if she would only let him, _bloody hell_ , if she only would—he damn well needed a better reason from her than Henry.

Especially since he was secretly hoping that his attire might jog Henry's memory. But Swan needn't know about _that._

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have shouted."

"It's okay. I shouldn't have either. I'll stop asking you about it."

"Thank you." He expected her to leave, but instead, she just adjusted her shirt a bit and looked uncomfortable. "Er, was there something else you wished to speak about? Is there a plan in place for today?"

"Well, okay, does this whole 'no modern stuff' apply to just clothing?"

"I—what do you mean?"

She sighed impatiently. "Okay, I have something for you. Hold on." Now she finally left.

Though he knew she would return shortly, he couldn't help but sag with relief in her absence.

When she reentered, without even knocking—how very rude—she tossed an item on the bed and beckoned for him to sit down. "Here." She shoved another item into his hand.

It was one of those talking devices. "This is meant for me?" he asked.

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

He looked up at her in surprise. It wasn't exactly a shock that she would give him a device like this, although to be fair, he didn't know how much the item had cost. Given that everyone in this realm seemed to own and use one, though, they were probably inexpensive. No, what was shocking was that she was actually asking him if it was _okay_ to give him a piece of technology like this.

He reasoned this was not the time to tell her that her father had already gifted him with his very first piece of modern technology, or that the shaver in question had (mercifully) reappeared in the bathroom of his room. This new curse apparently had an excellent memory.

"Thank you, Swan. I shall endeavor to learn how to use it properly."

"What, you think I wouldn't teach you?"

"You're not busy? What about Henry?"

She shrugged. "We're here because I have a case, remember? He might not know what the case entails, but he knows I'm working. He's with Mary Margaret for the day. Besides," she said with a grin, "I'm not passing up the opportunity to teach Captain Hook how to use a smartphone."

"The device is smart?"

"It's just the name. Don't worry about it. Look, let me show you." His heart thumped happily in his chest as she sat down on his bed and grabbed his sleeve to pull him down with her.

He tried not to think too much about her proximity as she showed him the tiny little button on the side of the device that would shut it on and off, and as she explained how what was called the _screen_ could be turned on and off with the same button. She then showed him how to access something called _contacts._ "I added a bunch for you," she said, pointing at the screen. "Not all of them will know who you are when you call, but I figured better safe than sorry."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Here, let me show you. Get to my name." He did so as she pulled out her own device. "Okay, now press this button—this is basically the 'select' button that lets you do stuff. Now select the call feature."

The screen changed, and moments later, Swan's device began to shake. She held it out to show him that she was receiving a message from … an entirely meaningless number. "Now hang up," she instructed. "Uh, press this here."

"How does that constitute 'hanging up?'"

She opened her mouth to explain and then shook her head. "Long story. It's just what it's called. Anyway, this number here," and she held up her device so he could see it clearly, "is your phone number. Every phone has its own unique number, so if there's someone you want to call, you need that number."

"But my device says I called _you_. Not some number."

"Go back into contacts and look again."

He did so, this time without her assistance, and found that underneath Swan's name was another number. "I see."

"Now, I can add you to my contacts." She held her device so he could watch as she tapped at the screen, labeling his number as _KILLIAN._

Killian. Not Hook.

"I rather like that," he said, mostly to himself.

"What?"

"It's nothing."

"Seriously, what is it?"

"Nothing, love."

But she seemed to figure it out. "Henry's nosy. What if you call me and 'Hook' shows up on the screen?" She was blushing. "So, you're just going to be Killian from now on."

"No, I understand." It didn't mean he wasn't going to enjoy it every time _Killian_ came forth from those lips. He didn't mind being addressed by his moniker any more than Swan seemed to mind being addressed her by her surname. But there was something so strangely intimate hearing her use his given name, no matter the circumstances.

She shook her head slightly and held up the device again. "Okay, so now you've called me. Why don't you try answering? Hold on." She put it into his hand before going into the bathroom.

He assumed that she meant for him to wait until she was finished using the bathroom, but then the device in his hand began to make an irritating noise, like the chiming of cheaply made bells. And the name _Emma Swan_ appeared. He quickly selected what appeared to be the option to receive the message, but he wasn't quite sure what to do next.

"Did it work?"

He could hear Swan's voice coming out of the device, but he could also hear her in the bathroom. "I think so," he said uncertainly.

"Put it up to your ear." He did so. "Can you hear me? Don't shout, just talk normally."

"Swan, I can hear you, but I can also hear you in the other room."

"Fair enough." He could hear the smile on her face, and couldn't help but grin a little, like they had some sort of secret between them. "But the cool thing is, I could be across town and you could still hear me just as clearly."

"That's extremely convenient."

"Exactly. No need for carrier pigeons or anything. Um, why do you have an electric razor in here?"

She must be referring to the shaver. "It was a gift from your father."

"Oh ... okay, I guess. You know, it's really weird that you have a razor, but no toothbrush."

"I've no clue what that is."

"Never mind."

It was getting a little strange speaking to her through the device when she was simply one room over; he opted to return to the original subject. "So any time I wish to speak to you, I simply follow those steps?"

"Well … yeah, I mean, I might not answer."

"Why wouldn't you answer if you were receiving a message from such a dashing pirate?"

"I might be taking a shower."

"All the more reason to answer, in my opinion."

She laughed; she actually _laughed_. "Or I might be asleep, or I might be busy tracking down whoever cursed everyone."

"And what should I do if you don't answer?"

"It'll go to voicemail."

"Swan."

"Right, here, let's try it. Hang up, okay?"

She came out of the bathroom and sat back beside him, just as closely as she had before. Her hair smelled like coconut. "Call me again." This time, her device buzzed again, but she didn't answer the call.

"Why does yours shake, while mine makes an infernal noise?"

"We can fix that," she said, as though that answered his question. "Just—you need to hold it up to your ear."

Where he'd heard Swan's voice coming out of the device moments earlier, he could now hear a strange gurgling tone. But then—"Hey, this is Emma. Leave a message." And then there was no sound.

"Now what? How do I leave you a message?"

"Hang up."

"Swan, that was bloody pointless."

"No, listen." She did something with her own device and then gave it to him.

"You have one new message," the device told him in an unnerving voice. "To listen to your messages, press one."

"You have to press one," Swan repeated. He lowered the device—phone, what a ridiculous term—and did so.

" _Now what? How do I leave you a message?"_

" _Hang up."_

"To delete this message, press one."

"See?" Swan took the phone back from him. "So if I don't answer, you can just leave a message."

"How do I retrieve my own messages?"

"It's complicated. You don't have to worry about that."

"But what shall you do if you need to contact me and I'm … in the shower?" He grinned.

She rolled her eyes. "I'll text you."

"Again, Swan, you know I've no clue what you mean."

"Okay, go to your home screen—press this to go back to the main screen. Good. Now, see this thing that says 'messages?'"

"Aye."

"Go in there. Now, new message. Choose a recipient."

"You, of course."

"Of course. Yeah, just type my name."

"And now?"

"Write me something."

"Anything?"

"Yeah, I guess."

 _You look especially beautiful today._ It took a while to type, especially since he had to balance the device on his knee to do so. He suspected he would be leaving verbal messages for Swan as opposed to this variety.

"And then?"

"Send."

The message remained on his screen, but had now moved to a different position. Meanwhile, Swan's phone buzzed once, and she blushed and scoffed before tapping at it.

 _You can't just send a normal message?_ appeared below his initial one.

"Ah, this is quite clever!" _Why would I when you become even more appealing with pink in your cheeks?_ She groaned. "What's this over here?" He tapped what appeared to be a smiling circle. "Ah, never mind." He tapped a few more times.

"Did you seriously send me a winking emoji?"

"Apparently. Is there a more salacious one?"

"No, thank _god."_

She then showed him how to change the volume the of the device, and the advantages and disadvantages of silencing it. Along the way, she described the _vibrate_ setting, and when he made a somewhat crass quip about some other uses for such a device, she had an unusual reaction.

The Emma Swan he climbed the beanstalk with would have rolled her eyes, shut him down, and then either gone silent or changed the subject. The Emma Swan he'd journeyed with in Neverland would have blinked at him a few times, also rolled her eyes, and then walked away, possibly after reminding him that she wasn't interested in bonding.

The eyeroll was, of course, classic Emma Swan behavior, and so of course, she rolled her eyes. But she also blushed. She chuckled. And she elbowed him gently. It was quite unexpected; what was going through her head?

"Anyway," she said, getting back to the subject at hand, "this thing has something called a battery, and you have to, uh, fill it with electricity." She pointed at a symbol. "That's the battery symbol and it tells you what percent you have left. This is at ninety-six percent because I charged it for you already. I'll show you how to charge it—uh, fill it with electricity, I guess."

The charger, as she'd termed it, looked a bit familiar. As she demonstrated how to use it, he realized why: it was similar to the shaver in the bathroom. David had mentioned, a year ago, that the shaver ran on electricity as well; it had to sit in the base to charge, and the base had to be connected to the wall. At least there was some consistency with this whole _electricity_ business.

She next had him attempt to attach the phone to the charger, which was easier said than done with one hand. Eventually, he managed by holding the phone flat on the dresser with his hook, and then fitting the tiny metal end of the charger into the impossibly small hole at the base of the phone. In response, the phone's screen flashed, and a lightning bolt appeared where the charge percentage was.

"Good. So if I were you, I'd let it charge whenever you're in here, to make sure it stays charged. You should _always_ have it with you when you leave, just in case. Pretty much everyone has their phones on them these days, so it would be weird if you didn't. Oh, and don't get it wet! A little rain is fine, but like … don't drop it off a boat."

He winced, reminded of the loss of the _Jolly Roger_ , but he hoped she was too busy removing his phone from the charger to notice. "All right! Any other questions?" She handed the device back to him.

"Aye. When I was in New York City last year, a woman used one of these to … take a photo of me."

"What? Why? That's creepy."

"No, it was actually—it doesn't matter. Can these be used to do that? I admit, I was confused."

"Yeah, you can use it as a camera," she said, nodding.

"How?"

She took his phone again, disconnecting it from the charger, and showed him how to access an image reading _Camera._ Soon enough, the screen disappeared. It wasn't entirely transparent—the image below was distorted and discolored—but he was seeing _through_ the screen. "Bloody hell."

"So, get whatever you want a photo of on the screen, and then click that."

Thinking quickly, he held up the phone so that Swan's face filled the screen, and pressed the button. Her surprised and confused face remained frozen on the screen, even as she rolled her eyes and huffed. "Jesus, Hook."

"You said 'whatever you want a photo of,'" he reminded her.

"Here, give me that. Ugh, I look terrible." But her cheeks turned pink again.

"You do not."

She tapped at his phone before holding it up in front of her, staring at it with what could be described as fond irritation, and then handing it back. "There, much better." She'd somehow captured a picture of herself. "You can make that my contact picture."

"How?"

"I'll do it." A few more taps and she was finished. "Now when I call you, that'll appear on the screen."

"Brilliant. But perhaps I should reciprocate. May I?"

"Really?"

"Why not?"

She shrugged before tapping at her phone and handing it to him. Now, he could see his own devilishly handsome face on the screen, again distorted. He made an appropriately smoldering smirk before tapping what was very obviously the camera button and handing the device back. She had an eyebrow raised at him, but she didn't speak as she finished using the device.

"So what now?" he asked.

"I guess we go investigate," she said. She sighed and sat back down on the bed before letting herself fall backwards. "I _hate_ not knowing where to start. At least with bail bonds, I have some information to go on."

"Perhaps we can speak with the dwarves," he suggested. "They might be able to give us more information with regards to how their brothers vanished."

"Yeah, maybe." Her device began to vibrate, and she chuckled. "Practicing already? I like the dedication there."

But it was her father's face that appeared on her screen. "That's not me, love."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed before she answered the call. "Hey, David, what's up?" He couldn't hear the prince's reply very clearly, but the man's voice sounded alarmed. Emma's brows shot up. "Okay, we'll be right there." Her eyes flicked to his. "Hook."

With that, she ended the call. "Well, looks like we've got something to investigate after all." For someone who had been bemoaning the lack of a lead, she looked exceptionally displeased to have been granted one.

But he understood why. Whatever they'd been heading towards when Pan's curse had torn them apart, they were back on track. She was connecting with him, enjoying herself with him, and while she might not be actively flirting with him, she was certainly permitting him to flirt with her.

Emma Swan was _fond_ of him. She was beginning to see him as he really was—just a man, a man who cared for her—and not some sort of fairytale pest. Perhaps that was why she was so keen on seeing him in attire typical of this world, so that she would feel less conflicted about letting herself feel something for him.

Well then. If Swan was growing to care for him, one thing was for sure: he was going to do everything he could to encourage her. After all, a man unwilling to fight for what he wanted deserved what he got.

"Well, love," he said, slipping his new device into his coat and holding out his hand to her, "I suppose we should go see what the trouble is."


	7. Like Father, Like Son (3x17)

**Hook + French fries**

* * *

Killian wondered whether or not he would ever stop feeling anxious around Henry. He supposed he might eventually; the lad's memories _would_ return at some point. Then he could stop pretending he wasn't Captain bloody Hook, and he could be more truthful about his relationship with Neal.

But perhaps Henry would have some strong feelings about Captain Hook pursuing his mother, _especially_ given said captain's history with his father. And grandfather. Especially since, in this world, Captain Hook was a villainous character, and though Killian considered himself a changed man, his past was far from clean.

He'd initially been inclined to believe that it wouldn't be an issue; the afternoon and evening they spent together after Neal's funeral had gone smoothly enough. Henry seemed to appreciate what little Killian could tell him about his father, and he even seemed to enjoy sailing quite a bit.

Today, however, had been a different story.

They'd spend the morning on the same boat that he'd managed to commandeer the last time; the owner seemed amenable enough when Killian slipped him some additional gold. Henry even remembered some of the knots he'd learned before, and he'd even been pleased when, after he'd made a small mistake, Killian recounted that Neal had made the very same one regularly.

But throughout the experience, Henry seemed quieter than usual, and a little frustrated. Killian had tried once or twice to suss out the truth of the boy's subdued nature, to no avail. Fortunately, the time he spent with young Baelfire proved useful; he knew to back down and let Henry deal with his own emotions for now.

When they returned to shore—the boat's owner had plans to go fishing this time, and so he and Henry would have to find some other way to spend the afternoon—Henry suggested they head to the diner for lunch. Regarding the location of the meal, Killian was more than happy to oblige; while most of the establishments in Storybrooke did accept gold as payment, Granny's was the only one that allowed him to run up a tab. Granted, the Widow Lucas was attempting to bleed him dry with how much she was charging him for a room, but for now, he would just be grateful that he could pay for the meal without Henry seeing him hand over doubloons.

The downside, however, to eating at the diner was eating at the diner. He'd been having an incredibly unpleasant time with the cuisine since he'd arrived in the Land Without Magic, and the diner had been, more than once, a scene of misery and woe.

During his initial stint here in Storybrooke, when he'd arrived with Cora, he'd eaten very little. There had been the food in the hospital, but all he could recall was that he'd eaten at some point, and not at all what it was that he'd eaten. Besides that, he'd subsisted on apples stolen from Regina's tree and the fish he'd managed to catch with a makeshift lure. That had been enough for him, given that he'd been trying very hard to focus on his revenge and nothing else.

When he'd returned from Neverland, he'd tried the local fare for the first time, having the _pancakes_ that David had recommended. They'd been much too sweet for him, although he'd suffered no ill effects.

Now, however, not only did he have to eat the modern food constantly, but he also frequently had to hide his lack of familiarity with it from Henry. Unable to ask Swan what the various dishes were, or have her warn him regarding the edibility of specific foods, he had to guess at what he should eat. And, fool that he was, he often found himself too proud to tell Swan that he even _needed_ help knowing what to eat. How could he possibly tell the object of his unrequited affection that he was frequently ill due to his new diet?

And so the end result was that his entire digestive system seemed to be staging a mutiny.

He was trying, though. For breakfast, he stuck to porridge or dry toast or eggs, and if he was alone midday, he simply skipped that meal. Supper was often difficult, since he almost always ate it with Swan and Henry and the rest of the Charming clan, but his current solution was to eat whatever Regina was eating.

Initially, he'd mirrored Swan instead, believing that she wouldn't steer him wrong; if they were at Granny's, he'd order what she'd order, and if they were at the loft, he'd take spoonfuls of the same dishes. It was always a mistake, though; she enjoyed a lot of very rich, heavy foods that overwhelmed his tastebuds and left him feeling as though his body had been filled with lead.

With Henry, now, he wasn't sure what exactly to do. He hadn't eaten lunch at Granny's since the first full day they'd been in town, and then, he'd eaten the warm, cheese-filled sandwich that Swan had also ordered. The menu was different from the one handed out at suppertime, so he couldn't just order the dinner salad Regina typically got.

But he had no choice but to order _something,_ or risk looking strange in front of Henry. And given Henry's behavior all morning, that wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

They quietly sat down in a booth; Ruby came over immediately with some glasses of water. "What can I get you guys?" She smiled warmly at Henry, but when she turned to look at Killian, her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. He wasn't surprised; they were all on edge right now, with Neal dead and Zelena still at large, motive (or motives) unknown. Ruby might have to put on a happy, friendly face for the oblivious Henry, but not for him.

"Can I get a burger and fries, and a hot cocoa?" Henry asked.

"Sure thing! How do you want your burger?"

"Medium well."

"And cinnamon on that cocoa, right?"

"Right," Henry replied. He looked suspicious.

"And for you? Killian?"

"I'll have the same thing, but coffee instead," he replied. He hadn't had a _burger_ or _fries_ yet. It couldn't be worse than anything else he'd ingested lately. He knew already that Swan and Henry's favorite beverage, hot cocoa with cinnamon, was much too sweet for him; coffee, at least, was something he'd enjoyed for years. It was a pleasure to consume it with such regularity.

"So," Henry said slowly, as he played with the paper wrapping from the drinking straw in his water. "Do you know my mom because of my dad?"

Killian supposed he should have expected the question given the situation. He'd just told Henry about how he'd known Neal as a boy; why _wouldn't_ Henry assume that this was how he knew Emma as well? And yet he was still blindsided by the question.

He felt bad lying to the lad any more than he had to, for Swan's sake; he'd fibbed a bit regarding how old he himself had been when he'd taught Neal to sail, and he'd felt guilty about that. Now what was he to do? The answer was, in fact, _no_ , that his relationship with Swan was merely coincidence, as unlikely as it was. But then he'd have to explain how he knew her, and his mind was completely blank when it came to determining a good lie for that.

"Aye, sort of. It's complicated."

"Really?" Henry asked skeptically. "How?"

"Well, I knew your father first, and then I met your mother long after he and I had fallen out of touch." So far so good; Henry was nodding along. "It was only after she and I met that I learned of their past relationship. We were both quite startled at the coincidence." Not exactly true; they'd never really discussed it. But it was a little odd, when he thought about it.

"Did you ever see him again."

"I did. Not for very long, but yes."

"Did my mom?"

"I …" He could imagine Swan overhearing this conversation. Her eyes would widen, her mouth would open but she wouldn't speak, and her hands would reach out slightly as though she were capable of halting speech magically (and who knew? Perhaps by the end of her lessons with Regina, she would be). "Henry, I don't think it's my place to talk about your mother."

The lad's expression grew sullen; he'd clearly been trying to suss out this information from Swan, and after little success, had thought Killian would give it to him more readily. "Look, I just don't get it, okay? All my life, I get this story about my dad: he was a thief, my mom fell in love with him, and then he set her up for stealing some watches and disappeared forever. I saw how much it hurt her, you know?

"And then suddenly, we're in this town in the middle of nowhere, and not only is my dad _here_ , but he _dies_ the week we get here and my mom is all broken up about it. Actually, _everyone's_ broken up about it. And now I'm hearing that he was actually a decent guy, and I want to believe that. I just don't _get_ it."

Henry fell silent and stared at the table in front of them. It was Killian's cue to speak, but what could he really say? He couldn't tell Henry the truth; Swan's wrath if he did so would be the stuff of legend. Nor could he tell Henry to be patient regarding an answer; it was true, given that Henry would understand when he regained his memories, but twelve-year-old children weren't amenable to being told to _wait._

"People are complex," he said. "Truth be told, neither one of your parents has been very forthright with me about the details of their shared history, especially not your father. But what's important, Henry, is that people aren't good or evil. We've all done things we regret, and we're all capable of doing the right thing. What your father did to your mother is something he always regretted; that I know for sure. As does she. But it's not something she knew until very recently. She wasn't hiding anything from you, Henry."

Henry snorted, but before Killian could request a clarification, their meals arrived. He was dismayed to find that a burger was the meal he'd eaten during their car ride to Storybrooke. It wasn't identical, to be sure, and it certainly smelled better, but he now deeply regretted his decision. Henry, meanwhile, simply began to eat. Killian supposed he should do the same to avoid making Henry even more suspicious.

To his relief, this version of a burger was actually palatable. In fact, he was surprised to find that he actually _enjoyed_ it. The meat was well-seasoned and juicy, and far less greasy than the first incarnation he'd encountered; the bread was toasted on the interior; the sauce complemented the meat quite well; and there were even some fresh vegetables to give the whole thing a delightful crisp. So why on earth had they eaten such a foul version before when _this_ existed?

He finished half of his burger before setting it down, reasoning that he wanted to give his stomach a chance to decide how to respond to the meal before subjecting it to the rest. Henry mirrored his actions before taking a sip of cocoa. "My mom is definitely hiding something from me," he said, picking up the conversation where it had left off.

"She can't talk about the case," he reminded him.

"No, but she _could_ talk about Walsh. And she hasn't mentioned him at _all_ since we left New York."

Bloody hell, _Walsh._ Of _course_ Henry would be suspicious. "She hasn't spoken about him very much with me either," he said. It was true, and perhaps it would show Henry that he wasn't the only person whom Swan didn't confide in about her former lover.

Henry just snorted. "Well, obviously. I might be twelve, but I know you're not supposed to talk about exes."

That was a strange rule. As far as social mores went in the Enchanted Forest, speaking of past loves was only bad form if you were only _just_ embarking on a new— _oh._

"Henry, your mother and I aren't romantically involved," he said firmly. Henry lifted an eyebrow, silently challenging that statement. "We're friends, and I care about her very much, but that's the extent of our relationship."

"Yeah, _right."_

"That's enough." Henry winced outwardly, and Killian himself did so internally. It had been ages—centuries, really—since he'd had to interact with a child on a regular basis, and even then, he'd rarely lost his patience with Baelfire. But Henry's attitude left much to be desired, and there was no subtle way of indicating that.

"I understand that you're frustrated with your mother at the moment, and you feel as though she's hiding information from you that you're entitled to know. Perhaps you _are_ entitled to know. But I am not going to betray your mother's trust, either by sharing information that she's asked me to keep to myself _or_ by speculating regarding her motives and desires.

"Your mother is doing her best right now, during trying circumstances, and you would do well to remember that and respect that. She loves you, and she's just trying to protect you and be a good parent. The least you can do is give her the benefit of the doubt for the time being."

The lad remained silent, his face initially screwing up with anger before turning red. His face fell a bit, and he stared at his meal.

Killian wasn't sure what else to say, and instead opted to return to his burger. It had grown a little cold, but was still quite delicious. Henry seemed to sense that the particular conversation he'd wanted to have was now over, and he also resumed eating.

His burger now finished, Killian turned to the fries. He wasn't quite sure what they were, exactly, but given that the burger had been better than he'd expected, it seemed a tad cowardly not to try them.

Oh! They were cut and fried potatoes! Well, _that_ was something he was happy to enjoy. He moved to break the stony silence that had set in. "These are excellent."

"Yeah, they're good," Henry replied sullenly before he ate one of his own fries.

He thought back to the occasions where Baelfire's teenaged moods got the best of him. Talking over the situation was never useful, resulting in the boy only becoming more uncommunicative. Letting him stew for a bit was a hit or miss technique, since sometimes Bae would simply become more and more convinced that he'd been treated unfairly. Changing the subject worked occasionally, as it seemed to be now, but how much could the two of them discuss fried potatoes?

The idea occurred to him as Ruby came to clear away the now-empty dishes from their burgers. "Actually, Henry, these fries are _so_ delicious that I think I'd like to have some of yours."

Henry frowned. "You haven't even finished yours."

"Aye, but I have a feeling I'll want more than my share."

The lad seemed to catch on. "Maybe _I'll_ want more than _my_ share. So what are we gonna do about it?"

Killian fished around one of his coat pockets for a pair of dice. "A simple game," he said, holding them up. "We each roll, and the higher number gets one of his opponent's fries."

"Isn't it random?"

"I suppose. Care to find out?"

"You're on."

With a quick shake of the dice, he could tell he'd grabbed his favorite loaded pair. The loading mechanism wasn't subtle, but a beginner like Henry wouldn't know just how to shake them to load or unload them, nor would he be able to tell the difference between the two states.

For now, though, he'd keep the dice balanced; it would be bad form to cheat against the lad when the whole purpose of the exercise was to get his mind off of Swan's cloak-and-dagger business.

And even if Henry was a little angry with him for not giving Swan up, or for replacing Walsh (as inaccurate as that was—and as much as Killian wished it weren't inaccurate), he wanted to have a good relationship with the lad. Even if Swan's feelings never changed (granted, he was reasonably sure of her feelings; it was her stubborn nature and stunning levels of denial that were the real issues), he wanted to get to know the boy who was Neal's son—Baelfire's son—and Milah's grandson. Henry was a bright and curious young man, born to an unusual birthright and raised in even more unusual circumstances; it was worth getting to know him for his own sake.

And, Killian mused as Henry rolled another ten to his own six, perhaps the boy was as good at dice as his father was. Time to load the dice.


	8. Perfection (4x04)

**Hook + modern clothes**

* * *

Killian stepped out of the Crocodile's shop into the early afternoon light. Hopefully, Swan wouldn't question the story he planned to tell her, especially given that he'd already enraged Rumplestiltskin on more than one occasion in too short a period of time. The least he could do to maintain some semblance of order would be to perpetuate the lie that Mr. Gold was, in fact, a changed man.

It was _pathetic_ that the man didn't seem capable of change. Did he not want to try? Did he not care about his own _wife?_ How could a man profess to love a woman enough to wed her, and yet treat her like a child or a simpleton?

He shook his head, realizing that deep in his thoughts, he'd stopped walking. He knew that marriage in and of itself wasn't terribly meaningful, especially to someone like the Crocodile, who'd treated Milah as though her desires and needs were unimportant annoyances. Of course he'd do the same to Belle. Both women deserved better.

Perhaps he shouldn't judge Belle as much as he was tempted to. Milah had been fooled into marrying Rumplestiltskin; there was obviously something about the man that made it easy for him to deceive beautiful, brilliant women.

Killian didn't need deception. He didn't need fraud. He was winning Swan's heart by being honorable.

But bloody hell, if this _date_ was going to go well, he'd need more than just a hand.

His _hand._ He flexed it in wonderment again—how _strange_ it was to have it back. What would Emma think of it? He shook his head; she would of _course_ prefer it. Her comment last week, before they'd tried to confront Zelena, made her feelings plain enough. At least now, she could have no complaints about having a beau with only one hand; she'd be happy that he was now fully endowed, as it were.

Now, what should he do next?

The day was still young; it had barely been an hour since Swan had shocked him to no end by arriving at Granny's and nearly sweeping him off his feet. As much as he'd protested being on the receiving end of a romantic invitation, he was honestly quite pleased. Having _her_ propose an evening together meant so much more than if she'd simply accepted his own proposition. Not that he would have made one, at least not any time soon: he wanted her to approach him on her own terms, when she was ready for him.

And, well, it _was_ nice to be courted. It was nice to know that she _did_ want him, that she wasn't attending dinner with him out of a sense of obligation only because he'd asked. He was winning her heart, as he'd promised.

But this had to go _well._ It just had to. What would she enjoy?

Royalty in this realm was a little odd; Henry had mentioned that there were monarchies, although not in this part of the world (something about a _present?_ A _prescient?_ Granted, he hadn't really been listening; Robin had already promised to lend him a reference book that Regina had let him borrow that would contain this sort of information). Here, Emma was _not_ considered a princess; she was simply a woman making her way in the world.

But this wasn't like the rest of the realm; this was _Storybrooke._ As far as he was concerned, she _was_ a princess, or at least a lady of high pedigree, and she should be treated as such. What would that entail?

If they were in the Enchanted Forest, he would arrive with flowers, of course. And then he would escort her to dinner in the nicest local establishment. And then, at the end of the evening, they would go for a short walk and he'd perhaps steal a kiss before returning her to her parents' home.

He snorted. He was thinking like a young _lieutenant_ , not a pirate captain. But this was _Emma._ She deserved a proper evening. And as much as he knew how much they would _both_ enjoy some _pillaging and plundering,_ as she had so eloquently phrased it, a proper evening wouldn't end in that sort of dalliance.

If she wanted to fuck him, well then, she'd have to go on another date with him, wouldn't she?

He had to secure that second date. This had to go well.

He flexed his hand again and returned to Granny's; the proprietor herself was at the register when he arrived. "Excuse me, Madam Lucas, are you busy?"

"What do you want, Hook?" Her exasperation could possibly be characterized as fond; after all, she was fleecing him for all he was worth for his rented room.

"Is there some list of businesses here in Storybrooke? I have some inquiries I wish to make."

She smirked a bit. "All the rooms should have the yellow pages in a drawer somewhere. Have you tried that?"

He frowned. Yellow pages? What did the color of some parchment have to do with business? No matter; he'd search the drawers in the bureau and nightstand and see what he could find. He turned to head to his room

"Wait, wait." Granny called him back over; she seemed almost as though she felt some level of guilt; it was an unusual sight. "The yellow pages is what we call the directory here. It has everyone's phone number in it—well, most of them at least—and it also has a list of businesses and their phone numbers as well. Like I said, every room should have a copy; if you don't find yours, come back down and we'll find one."

"My thanks, madam." He nodded at her and went up to his room.

Sure enough, in the nightstand, he found the yellow pages—well, the Yellow Pages; it was an _official_ name (although the pages were indeed yellow). He'd actually discovered the book on his first evening in the room, a year ago, but hadn't a clue what it was and therefore promptly forgot about it.

He dragged it out and began flipping through the pages. Not everyone's phone number was present, and some of the numbers differed from the ones he had in his own phone's contacts. But the Widow Lucas had been true to her word.

The businesses were listed in the front, alphabetically by type. Could he simply find a business and call and make inquiries? He was about to find out.

First, he needed to buy flowers; sure enough, under _F_ , he found _florists._ Of course, there was only a single business in Storybrooke that sold flowers, a shop called _Game of Thorns._ What an absurd name—how was it a game?

He pulled out his phone, entered in the number, and pressed the call button. It was awkward, making a phone call to someone who wasn't already a contact in his phone. Would the person receiving the call know that Killian Jones was calling?

He remembered learning to use the phone and thought probably not. Would he need to introduce himself if he was simply making inquiries? Bloody hell, what was he going to even ask again?

"Game of Thorns."

It took him a moment to realize that that was how the call was being answered, as opposed to saying, "Hello?" or, "Hi, Hook," as he was accustomed to hearing.

"Ah, yes, I was calling to inquire about your shop."

"Okay," the person said slowly. "What do you need to know exactly?"

"What hours are you open?" he opted to ask first.

"Mondays through Fridays, nine am till eight pm, Saturdays from nine to six, and Sundays are noon to three. We're also open weekday hours on holidays like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day and the like."

That was more information than he'd wanted, but it did provide him with the information he'd needed, which was that the shop would be open all day today. "Excellent," he replied. "And what sort of selection do you have?"

"Uh, I guess most of everything?" The person seemed to suspect that he might be calling them as a joke. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

"I'm not really sure," he admitted. "Do you have roses?"

"Of course." He seemed almost angry at the question. "Those are our bestseller. My daughter's favorite flower, you know."

"Well, that's probably what I'll get. Thank you very much; I'll likely stop by today. Where are you located?"

"We're at eight-sixteen Main Street. Can't miss us."

"Wonderful. Thank you for your time."

"Great." And then the call ended. It had been awkward, certainly, but he'd obtained the information he been seeking. Before arriving at the loft, he would stop by eight-sixteen Main Street and purchase flowers. Perfect.

And then they would go to dinner—where? Back to the Yellow Pages; he found the list of restaurants, which was more substantial than the list of florists, but still quite sparse.

He could not— _would_ not—bring her to Granny's for supper. That was _not_ special, and tonight had to be _special._ Emma needed to know she was special, that she deserved a lovely evening out, that she should eat a delicious meal in the company of someone who thought she was delightful, beautiful, fearless, incredible …

He was getting distracted.

Most of the establishments listed seemed to be specialty businesses, such as the shop serving something called _ice cream._ Emma had mentioned that cuisine the other afternoon, but he still wasn't sure what it was; he could ask about it at dinner. But it didn't sound like a place to sit and enjoy a full meal. Perhaps they could visit on a subsequent date.

 _If_ she would permit him to continue to court her. Bloody hell, this date _had_ to go well.

One place, Tony's, looked promising. He picked up his phone again, this time a little more prepared for the call.

"Tony's Restaurant, how can I help you?"

"Hello. I was wondering, what sort of an establishment are you?"

"Ah, we're an Italian restaurant."

"How … " He cringed, knowing how absurd his next question was going to be. "How classy is your establishment?"

"Oh, quite," the person replied enthusiastically. "Four stars. This isn't your local diner."

Perfect. "Excellent, that's just what wanted to hear. Would it be possible to have two for dinner tonight?"

"Absolutely. What time?"

He hadn't finalized any details with Swan, only that they'd have a date that evening. Hopefully, whatever time he selected would be amenable to her. "Is seven o'clock available?"

"It is. Two for dinner at seven o'clock." They seemed to be making a note of it. "Whose name is the reservation under?"

"Killian Jones," he said without hesitation.

"Killian Jones …" The person paused. "Uh … wait, Captain Hook?"

He sighed. "Yes." He tried to remind himself that the entire town would probably know of the date within the hour anyway, given the dwarves' propensity for gossip.

"O-oh, okay. Well, uh … Mr. Jones, we've got your reservation all set, and we'll see you at seven o'clock."

"Thank you. Where are you located?"

"Five Cannery Street, down by the docks."

"Thank you very much."

As he tried to reassure himself that the entire town knowing about the date was _not_ going to ruin the evening, he thought about what the man had said. He looked down at his left hand once again; was he still Captain Hook? He'd been Hook for centuries at this point. He still _felt_ the same. Perhaps this wasn't as simple as exchanging one appendage for another.

But this was still _better._ That had been the whole point: Emma deserved a perfect date, with someone who could show her just how important she was to him. And with two hands, he could give her that perfect date.

He still had hours before he needed to head to the florist. He removed his greatcoat; perhaps a quick nap wouldn't be a terrible idea.

It felt strange to hold his coat with both hands. It _looked_ strange. Actually, what _did_ he look like now? He stepped into the bathroom, where there was a full-length mirror on the back of the door.

This was a Killian Jones who hadn't existed in _years._ He was hardly older than he'd been the day he'd lost his hand, and looked very much the same, albeit slightly more hardened. But that young, fearless pirate, whose thirst for revenge had been sated when he'd destroyed his former kingdom's navy, was staring back at him. He smirked.

And then he frowned.

The date had to be _perfect._ And what had Emma complained about _incessantly_ until he'd practically shouted at her to leave him alone?

His attire. Bloody hell. It wasn't that a princess couldn't be courted by a pirate; Swan clearly liked that about him, and he enjoyed that she didn't expect him to change who he was. But Emma was a lady in _this_ land, and he was a pirate from _another._ How would she feel if they went to an upscale establishment for a meal, with her dressed in more formal attire for this realm, and him in his leathers and greatcoat?

He needed new clothing. Back to the Yellow Pages he went. Within minutes, he had the address of the only garment shop in town, which was mercifully across the street from Granny's. Shortly after, he was inside.

It was time to discover what this realm's clothes really felt like. What he'd worn in the hospital hardly counted, as Swan had reassured him.

He was delighted to find that the entire shop was full of labels; he found a section specifically filled with men's attire, and within that section, everything was clearly marked.

First, underclothes. He typically went without, given how restrictive his trousers were, but he was pleased to find that in this realm, those garments were smaller and appeared to be much less complicated. They were also packaged in bulk, which seemed convenient, although then he ran into an issue.

What _size_ was he?

"Can I help you?"

He nearly jumped when the shopkeeper, standing behind him, asked that question. "Ah, yes, I was wondering how to tell what size to purchase," he explained.

The shopkeeper appraised him for a moment. "Well, you can't try these on, but if you try on some jeans or something and let me know what size you are in those, I can hazard a guess."

"Jeans?"

Here. The shopkeeper led him to another part of the men's section, where there were pair after pair of trousers. "Jeans."

Ah, the same kind of trousers the majority of people here seemed to wear. He selected a pair that looked similar to his own leathers, as opposed to the slightly baggy ones David seemed to favor.

"Might want to grab a few different sizes," the man said. "See which ones fit best. If none of them do, just come back out and grab some more."

"Ah, very well."

The man grabbed the jeans from him and pointed to a small piece of fabric sewn inside the waist. "Size is right here."

"Thank you."

He pulled off two more pairs with different numbers inside, and followed the man to some small stalls off to the side. "Whatever doesn't fit, just leave by that table over there when you're done." And then he wandered back off to the rest of the shop.

Inside the stall, Killian did what he assumed he should do: change into the jeans and see if they suited him. The jeans were very strange, to be sure. They were tight in a different manner than his leather trousers were, and to fasten them, there were no laces. There was a strange mechanism he'd seen before, such as on Swan's leather jackets. He pulled at the small tab and sure enough, the front of the jeans _closed_ , as if by magic. And then there was a button at the top to finish it off.

The jeans were _not_ comfortable; he could hardly walk in them; they were certainly too small. He managed to pull them off (the strange mechanism worked the same way in reverse; fascinating!) before trying on the other two pairs.

Fortunately, the third pair felt comfortable, and unlike the second pair, it was neither too loose, nor were the legs too short on him. He changed back into his leathers and stepped back out of the stall, leaving the ill-fitting jeans on the table, as instructed.

If he was to be the man for Swan, he'd need to purchase more than one pair, to have a selection to choose from. The people here did not wear the same clothes day in, day out, after all. Checking the number inside the waistband, he pulled a few more pairs off of the rack, checking on the numbers to ensure they matched.

He approached the shopkeeper once more, showing him the numbers. "Ah, medium, then. I think that's what you picked out already." Sure enough, the shopkeeper was correct. "If you want, you can leave what you want to purchase up here, so you don't have to carry it around.

"My thanks."

Underclothes and trousers were finished, but he'd need boots, stockings, and shirts as well. And while Swan deserved a modern man, she _was_ falling for a pirate; a vest and leather jacket would be essential.

Shirts were simpler; it was easier to guess his size and find several flattering ones. He especially liked some of the prints; would Swan like them? Would she notice?

There were also waistcoats available, although not many; that was discouraging, since that was the garment he typically relied on to add variety to his wardrobe. He opted for a couple of black ones, including one made partially of leather that he hoped would remind Swan of his Enchanted Forest attire.

Stockings and boots were a challenge; the shopkeeper had to assist him again. Shoes in the Enchanted Forest were made to fit; the few pairs he'd ever owned as a free man had been custom made by a cobbler after a fitting, and then repaired over and over until they finally fell apart. Here, though, there were boxes and boxes of shoes and boots, already finished. The shopkeeper had him place his stockinged feet on a strange measuring device, after which he then gave him a number and letter and set him to find a pair of footwear he liked.

The half-boots he found were quite comfortable, and the shopkeeper assured him they would go well with the style of trousers he'd set aside for purchase; he also provided several pairs of stockings as well.

Finally, the last piece of the sartorial puzzle, and perhaps the most important one: a leather coat.

He knew from observing other Storybrooke residents that the greatcoat he favored was absolutely out of style; even the men wore short jackets similar to the ones that Swan wore regularly. Therefore, he was not surprised, and therefore not very disheartened, when he found only the short style in the relevant section of the store. Once again, though, the shop had limited variety, and he was somewhat disappointed that none of the jackets had buttons or clasps like his greatcoat did, or if they did, they were ornamental in ways he found unflattering.

But he was trying to be a modern man now, for Swan's sake. "What is this called?" he asked the shopkeeper, pointing at the closure mechanism he'd encountered when trying on the trousers.

"It's a zipper," the man replied. "Because it zips up and down." He picked up a jacket and demonstrated its use, and Killian could understand how the name came about; the sound made was slightly recognizable as a _zip._ Killian tried it a few times before thanking the man and returning to his perusal of the selection.

He was about to give up and resort to wearing his own coat for the time being, before he spotted one last jacket on the end. It was black, as opposed to red or brown, and while it had embellishments—what appeared to be _zippers_ that opened and closed nothing—they weren't overly ornate or awkward-looking.

In fact, he noted approvingly, it also had zippers along the ends of the sleeves; it looked very similar to the sleeves on the leather jacket that Swan had been wearing when they'd first met. He recalled how she'd _zipped_ open the end of her sleeve so he could place the magic cuff on her wrist.

Oh, the _animosity_ he'd being on the receiving end of! He remembered how guarded she was, how distrustful. He remembered how she'd nearly entirely refused to engage with him, lying about being in love until she'd realized he was a kindred spirit. He remembered the guilt on her face when she'd left him behind, ignoring her own gut instinct.

Now, she permitted him to hold her and kiss her, and she'd even asked to court him. She'd come so far.

And so had he. He was going to be the man she deserved, no matter what it took. This date _would_ go well: he'd pick up some flowers, take her to a delicious meal, and return her to her parents like the gentleman he was. The _modern_ gentleman.

He grabbed the jacket and made his way to pay for it and the rest of his purchases. It was only as he was paying (and receiving some very unsolicited, polite instructions on how to obtain the currency of this realm) that he realized something a little odd:

He'd kept forgetting to use his left hand.


	9. All In (4x11)

**Hook + condoms**

 **Thanks to treluna2 for suggesting sex ed/condom demo. This is one of the few one-shots I'd hoped to write from the beginning, so I was thrilled that someone suggested it!**

 **This one-shot contains explicit sexual content.**

* * *

To say that it had been a trying day would be the ultimate understatement.

Killian had woken up that morning both a slave to his mortal enemy and a dead man walking. Tonight, he was free and whole; his would-be murderer had been banished and left with nothing.

Not everything had been set right—Regina was mourning Robin's departure, Belle was certainly devastated, and there were several people presumed dead thanks to his own actions. But he was alive and safe.

And, of course, unable to sleep.

He wasn't really _trying_ to sleep. It wasn't all that late anyway, and he was still waiting to see if Swan would send him a message, as she typically did before she went to bed herself. But there had been something in her eyes when they'd parted earlier, as she went to comfort Regina. And he knew exactly what that something was:

Fury.

Why wouldn't she be furious? Yes, she clearly cared about him; he relished the smile she gave him after he kissed her. That small, understanding, relieved smile told him what he needed to know most: that the important thing to her was that he was safe.

But there had been a little flicker in her expression when he'd quipped about being a survivor, and he knew she was angry, too. Because the night under the stars, when he'd reassured her that she would not lose him, he'd _meant_ that he was capable of taking care of himself. And his rescue this evening had not been due to his own ability to survive; it had been due to Belle's cleverness, quick thinking, and mercy.

And worse, he'd almost died because of his own foolishness. A survivor indeed!

He was back in the same situation as he had been the night Swan had almost been trapped in that damn hat: she knew he'd lied to her, and the damage his lies had wrought. Whether or not she would leave him remained to be seen; the kiss and the smile gave him hope, but then again, she'd had plenty of time to think things over since they'd parted earlier in the evening.

He covered his face with his hand. He was a bloody fool to think he could be good enough for Emma Swan.

There was a knock at the door.

He thought he might be hearing things; the inn was old enough that he'd had to learn to sleep through all manner of creaks, groans, and rattles. But then there was another knock, louder this time, and much more obviously deliberate.

He quickly turned on the light beside the bed and scrambled to find something to wear. "One moment!" he called out, unsure of who would be visiting him. He grabbed a clean pair of underwear from the dresser and pulled them on before pulling on one of his old linen shirts. He didn't have time to do up all the buttons on one of his newer ones, and he'd be damned if he was accused of being a show-off again (although Ruby had seemed rather pleased with the view when she'd called him that last week).

He was very confused to find Swan waiting on the other side of the door. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Is everything okay?"

"No," she said, and he could see angry tears threatening to spill over. "No, everything is _not_ okay. Can I come in?"

"Of course," he said with a sigh, gesturing for her to enter. It was finally happening: the woman he loved more than anything else in all the realms was here to tell him that they were through. How fitting that, not too long ago, he thought himself so vastly superior to the Crocodile, and tonight, they would both lose the women they loved.

As Swan stepped inside, though, he noticed something odd. "What's that?" She didn't answer his question, instead dropping the bag she'd been carrying onto the bed before sitting down next to it and crossing her arms. He licked his lips nervously. "Swan, please tell me what's going on."

"I'm trying to think of what to say," she said bitterly. "I had a whole speech in my head and now I can't remember any of it."

He let the silence sit for a few long moments, waiting to see if she could remember what she'd planned to say, before he spoke. "Emma, I'm so sorry." She looked towards him, and her eyes flashed, but she didn't speak. "I lied to you. I hid things from you. And because of my foolishness, we both almost died. I don't deserve you." He took a deep, shuddering breath, and it was only then that he realized the true extent of his own emotions. He would _not_ cry; he would _not_ have her pity him when this was his own fault. "I only ask that when things are a bit more calm that perhaps I would still be permitted to spend time with Henry. I understand if that's—"

"You think I'm breaking up with you?" she asked incredulously.

"Ye—you're not?"

"Uh, _no._ Why did you think that?"

"You're clearly furious with me."

"I'm not angry at you, Killian. Well, _okay_ , maybe a little," she admitted. She sighed. "I'm mad at _me."_

"Why on earth would you be angry with yourself?" It was his turn to be incredulous, but for the life of him, he wasn't sure what she was talking about. "You had no idea anything was wrong, and as soon as you did, you came to my rescue. And _don't_ say that it doesn't matter."

"Are you kidding me?" she asked, practically slamming her palms on the bedspread. "Are you fucking kidding me, Killian? Of _course_ it matters!" He opened his mouth to repeat himself, but she shook her head. "No, _I'm_ gonna talk now. I've gotta talk."

She stood and began to pace, taking up most of the space in the tiny room; he pressed himself into a corner as she did so. She was like the beginning of a storm, and he knew better than to get in her way. "The reason I'm so pissed, Killian, is that this is _my_ fault." She looked up at him. "Let's work backwards. I didn't 'come to your rescue' until Anna told us about the hat and Gold. I didn't even know you were going to _be_ there. I didn't even think you were in _danger_ until I saw you there with your heart in his fucking hands!"

She wasn't shouting, but her voice was rising as she continued. "And just to make everything even worse, I _knew_ something was up with you. You were acting weird and when you kissed me, it felt weird. And that last time, you grabbed my fucking arm and it was _terrifying_ because I _knew_ something was really wrong!" She was crying now. "And what did I do? _Nothing!_ I did _nothing,_ Killian. I ignored the fact that you were suffering!"

"Emma—"

"No, I have to finish," she said, wiping at her face gracelessly. "Because that's not even the worst part." She'd lowered her voice now, to a whisper. "The worst part is why you even got stuck working for Gold in the first place. It's because of _me."_

"I was trapped in Gold's employ because of my own recklessness," he told her firmly. She could _not_ blame herself for his mistake; he would not let her.

"Why did you ask for your hand back?" she asked quietly. "Why did you do it?"

"I—" He paused immediately.

She nodded. "Because you thought it mattered to me. Because you thought the only way I'd want to be with you would be if you had two hands."

"Not exactly," he said gently.

"But close enough."

He didn't reply. He _couldn't_ reply. She wasn't ever supposed to _know_ how he'd felt, preparing for their date and trying to make sure everything went perfectly. She was just supposed to enjoy the evening.

"I _made_ you feel that way," she continued. "I made you feel like you weren't good enough, like the hook was a problem or something. Well, it's not. It never was."

"I know that now," he said, almost whispering. "I think I knew as soon as I handed you that rose." She nodded, and for a minute, neither of them said anything.

"You've—I know you've wanted this for a long time," she said. "Being with me. Like, a relationship. I got used to that. I just thought you'd always be here for me, no matter what I did."

"I _will_ always be here for you," he reassured her. "I know almost dying makes that seem unlikely, but—"

"That's not what I mean, okay? Can I finish?" He nodded. "I mean, I've taken it for granted that you're here for me. I've been so focused on my needs, I've been taking advantage of you. I mean, I noticed that you were upset and acting strange, and I barely even _tried_ to talk to you about it! What sort of person _does_ that?" She wrapped her arms around herself, as though she were freezing cold. "I wanted all the things about being with you that were fun and easy for me. But relationships aren't like that. You have to give, too. I haven't done that."

"That's not true," he said gently. "You are the most selfless person I've ever met."

"Not with you, I haven't been," she said firmly; her anger was back. "I was so terrified of being in a relationship again, after all the bullshit with Walsh and my own baggage with Neal, that I almost lost you because of it. I made you feel like you had to constantly impress me, that you had to be perfect _all_ the time, that one tiny mistake would cost you everything. You didn't even believe that I would trust you over _Gold_ , and it's because I gave you _every_ reason to believe I wouldn't."

He didn't have a reply for that, although he knew she wasn't expecting one. He knew what she was referring to as well: the curse Zelena had placed on his lips. They'd never spoken about it since it had happened, but he could never forget the betrayal and fury in her eyes when she'd told him that she could never trust him again. He hung his head.

"Well, that's all over," she said firmly. "I'm done with this." He felt tears threatening to leak out again, and he focused all of his willpower on not allowing them to. For all that she'd claimed to not want to end their relationship, she was about to do it anyway. "I'm all in, Killian."

He nearly snapped his neck as he raised his head to look at her. "You're what?"

She still had her arms crossed, and tears streaked her cheeks, but most of her fury had melted away. "I'm all in. I want this to be a _real_ relationship. I want you to be my boyfriend, and I want to be your girlfriend. I want this to be a real commitment, okay? I want it to be about _both_ of us caring about each other, and not just about you trying to convince me not to leave."

She stepped up to him and grabbed the lapels of his shirt. "I'm not leaving," she said firmly. "I want this. I want it with you. I _care_ about you, okay? I love talking to you every day, and I love getting lunch or dinner with you, and I love that you and Henry are starting to spend more time together. I love kissing you—"

He didn't need to be told twice. They were in private now, not in the back hallway where anyone could see them, and so he kissed her the way he'd wanted to kiss her then. It was messy and hard, and they both made small sounds of protest when their teeth made contact briefly. He sucked her lip into his mouth and bit down gently; she responded by releasing his shirt and tugging at his hair as she pulled him closer.

She wasn't leaving. He was the luckiest man alive.

The kiss finally slowed down enough for him to catch his breath. "Emma, I—" _I love you. I love you more than anything in this life or the next. I love you, you brilliant, beautiful woman._

It was too soon. She might not run— _she wasn't leaving_ —but it was too soon. He could tell from her expression that she was concerned about what words were about to fall from his lips. Instead, he changed the subject. "You brought something with you?" he asked.

"Mm, yeah," she replied. "Wanna see?"

"Sure."

She smirked at him, and his heart soared; her anger was gone. She went back to the bed, where she'd dropped the bag, and opened it. "Let's see," she said, rummaging through. She began pulling out items and naming them. "Hair brush. Toothbrush. Face wash. Moisturizer. Change of clothes. Pajamas. I assume you have toothpaste, right?"

"I do." He grinned. "Swan, are you staying the night with me?"

"Hell yeah, I am," she answered firmly. "And, uh, I also thought maybe we could use these." She pulled out a final item, which was a small, purple box made of what he'd learned was called _cardboard._

"What's that?"

"Here." She handed him the box.

"'Condoms,'" he read out loud. What were _condoms?_ He continued to read the packaging, which described the product as being made of something called _latex_ and feeling like _next to nothing._ He flipped it over and smirked when he saw an illustration. "I assume this is something sexual."

"Yeah," she said a little shyly. "Look, part of the reason we haven't gotten around to this is all the stupid Storybrooke shit that always gets in the way. But I know I haven't really been _in_ until now, and I think this is a good way to make that clear to you."

Something bothered him about the way that she spoke; he handed the box back to her. "Swan, I don't want you to sleep with me as a way of proving your feelings to me."

"No, I didn't mean it like _that,"_ she said, sighing loudly. "I want to have sex with you. I've _already_ wanted to have sex with you. Remember our first date kiss?"

"It's a difficult kiss to forget." He recalled how, in that perfect moment, he'd forgotten about the thief ruining the date, or the fear of his hand turning against him. It had just been her lips on his, and sweet bliss.

"I know what I said about pillaging and plundering," she continued, stepping back over to him and pressing herself against him. "But if that apartment hadn't been full of cock-blockers, I would have pulled you in and torn your clothes off."

"I told you," he said roughly, caressing her arms with his hand and wrist. "I told you, it was because you hadn't been on a date with me yet."

"Mm, yeah, and you were right." She shifted her hips against him, and he groaned softly. "Think about _just_ how long I've been waiting for it."

"I wouldn't be much of a gentleman if I made you wait any longer," he acknowledged.

There was a flurry of activity as they both tried to accomplish several tasks at once. There was simply too much to do—they needed to remove all of their clothing, they needed to clear the bed of Swan's personal items, and they needed to keep kissing and touching. The last bit felt especially important, but it also made it more difficult to address anything else.

"Okay, okay, hold on," Swan said, releasing her hands from his shirt and her trousers; she'd been attempting to pull off the former while also unbuttoning the latter. "Screw romance for a sec—this is too hard. Just get naked."

He'd imagined their first time more often than he cared to admit, even to himself, and most of the scenarios that had crossed his mind involved the two of them lovingly undressing the other. He'd thought about slowly removing her attire and kissing every inch of her revealed skin as he did so. He'd thought about how he would breathe heavily with anticipation as she undid the closure of his trousers and slowly pulled them down.

There would be time enough for _that_ later, though. As she'd already made clear, she'd waited long enough. So had he.

In no time at all, he'd thrown off his shirt and discarded his underwear; as Emma continued to pull off her clothing, he made his way around her and tossed her personal items, _sans_ condoms, back into her bag, which he placed on the floor, out of the way. The condoms he wasn't sure what to do with, and so he set them on the nightstand.

He turned in time to see Swan finishing as she undressed. He loved that he could tell, just from looking at her, that she had an order to how she took off her clothing. Boots had come off first, which he knew because her jacket, which had come off second, was lying on top of them. Her shirt had been next, and was now hanging on the corner of the bed (very clearly unintentionally) while she leaned against the dresser to remove her stockings.

He filed that information away: Emma Swan, his _girlfriend,_ took off her stockings after removing her shirt, but before removing her trousers. He smiled widely, unable to contain his happiness—his _girlfriend_ , Emma.

It was a silly term, as was the matching _boyfriend_ , but he understood what it meant. Henry had explained it to him when he'd apologized for his remarks during the Snow Queen's curse. And so silly or not, he couldn't help but delight in the fact that she was his _girlfriend,_ that he was her _boyfriend,_ and that he could learn things about her that seemed inconsequential and insignificant, but that were still important all the same. Such as the order in which she removed clothing.

Which reminded him—she was still partially dressed, and he was simply standing there, nude, staring and not assisting. Fortunately, in the time that he'd been contemplating the situation, Swan had discarded her jeans and was pulling off her brassiere and underwear.

He would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy just how much _smaller_ women's underwear was than men's. The fabric barely covered _anything._ Not that it mattered now anyway, because the underwear was now in a little heap at Swan's feet, and the brassiere had fallen to the floor as well.

"Jesus Christ," Swan said, breathing heavily; he couldn't tell if it was from arousal and excitement, the speed with which she'd undressed, or both.

Meanwhile, he was busy taking in the sight in front of him. He'd always admired her figure, but now that she was naked before him, he could see just how powerful her body was. Swan frequently showed off her arms (they'd been quite distracting at times in Neverland), and so he chided himself for being so surprised that her thighs and stomach were equally muscular.

Her breasts, as expected, and from the cleavage she'd flaunted on occasion, were marvelous. He resolved himself to put his face squarely in between them at the first opportunity.

She said something, but he didn't quite hear her. "What was that?"

"I never stood a chance," she repeated. She licked her lips. "You are _unfairly_ hot."

"Oh?"

"You were hot in the pirate get-up," she said, taking a step towards him. "You're hot in your new clothes." She gently laid her hands on his shoulders. "But you are _really_ hot naked."

"Well, thank you, Swan," he said. "I'd like to tell you how I feel about seeing _you_ naked, but it might be easier if I showed you instead." He scooped her up easily and deposited her on the bed.

As he'd promised himself, the very first thing he did was press his face between her breasts. She giggled briefly; he managed to cut her off by shifting his mouth over to one nipple while his hand found the other. "These are perfect," he said, briefly interrupting his ministrations. "Absolutely perfect. You're going to have to dress while I'm unconscious, for I'm not convinced I'd willingly let you cover them up ever again in my presence."

"That would—that would get awkward—in front of my parents." Her words were interrupted by little pauses and gasps as she enjoyed what he was doing.

"I'm willing to withstand a little awkwardness," he murmured before enthusiastically flicking at her nipple with his tongue. She was squirming underneath him, and he quite liked that response. In fact, when he continued to flick and swirl with his tongue, but also gently pinched and plucked at her other nipple with his fingers, the squirming picked up quite a bit. And she started moaning; he was on the right track.

"I—I don't want foreplay tonight," she finally gasped out. He looked up at that, and if he wasn't already fully erect beforehand, he certainly was now. Her face was flushed and the green of her iris had practically disappeared. "I just want to feel you. I just want to have sex—we can go slow later."

"As you wish." He'd have preferred to make her come several times over first, but he wasn't foolish enough to turn her down. "I assume the condoms become relevant now?"

"Yeah," she breathed. "Yeah, lemme show you."

He helped her sit up, and she tore open the box, pulling out a shiny square packet. She tore it open and pulled out what appeared to be a slimy, shaped film. He lifted up the box to examine the illustration. "That looks _nothing_ like it," he commented.

"It's not, like … solid," she said. "Here, you'll see when we put it on." She took the box from him and put it back on the nightstand before gesturing for him to angle his cock towards her. She paused.

"What is it?"

"Sorry, it's just … you have a very nice penis."

It might have been the tone of her statement, or the euphoria he felt from her commitment to him, or the emotional strain he'd been under for so long, but he laughed. He couldn't stop laughing.

"Oh my god, sorry, that was awful."

"No, no, it wasn't," He said, between chuckles. "Simply unexpected. And I'm not in a state where I can hide my emotions that well. It was a lovely compliment, Swan—thank you."

"You're welcome," she said, grinning and bumping his shoulder with hers. "And hey, you know that _this_ ," and she gestured between the two of them, "means that you don't _have_ to hide your emotions from me. Like, if you're upset with me, or I'm annoying you, or you think I'm doing something stupid, you can _tell_ me. And you don't have to be scared of looking weak or something in front of me." She grasped his hand with her free one. "I'm not going anywhere."

He swallowed hard, the amusement from her unusual comment now gone. "Aye, nor am I." He kissed her gently, and then less gently, and then—

"It's _damp,"_ he complained when she accidentally touched him with the condom she was still holding.

"Oh, yeah, they put some lube on it, but it's never enough. I brought more; it's somewhere in my bag."

"Lube?"

"Sorry—lubricant. It's actually pretty great. Anyway, let's get this on, okay? Why don't you hold your penis." She giggled. "Yeah, okay, and then I'll put this on."

He watched as she placed the condom at his tip and then began to _roll_ it. It felt _wonderful_ to have her touch him—he'd have been lying if he claimed to have never touched himself while thinking about this very situation. And now he could see how the condom matched the illustration; it was flexible, but shaped like a cock so that it could fit over it. It was quite tight, although not uncomfortably so, and went all the way to the base. "Why are you pinching it?" he asked.

"You have to leave room for, you know …" He raised an eyebrow. "Semen."

"Ah, I suppose that makes sense."

"Is it okay? I know some guys don't like wearing them."

"It's fine, love. Strange, yes, but not uncomfortable." He would have to see if this strange item enhanced the experience, or if he would be one of those _guys_ who didn't like wearing them.

"Good." She smiled shyly. "Let me grab the lube."

Lubricant, as it turned out, was a modern type of oil used for intercourse. "Ah, I'm familiar with this concept," he told her, "although if you're so concerned, I wish you'd reconsider foreplay."

"Oh, I mean, it's fine," she said dismissively. "Honestly, even when I'm really wet, I like to use lube. I'm just gonna … Just hold still, I guess." She opened the bottle and squeezed lubricant into her hand. He thought she might lean back and apply it to her sex, but instead, she reached out and grabbed his cock. He let out a grunt as she rubbed the lubricant all over the condom; although the sensations were muted through the thin material, it still felt fantastic to have her hand on him.

"Okay," she said, practically whispering. "So, uh … what position do you want to do?"

"Do you have a preference?" he asked. She shrugged. "Then I suppose you should lie back, darling, so I can properly fuck you."

"Mm, I do like the sound of that."

Entering her was strange, with the additions of the condom and lubricant. She clearly shouldn't have insisted on foregoing foreplay; although the lubricant made her own wetness less necessary, she was very tight, and he could tell she was tensing up as he thrust gently. "Do you need me to stop?"

"No, just keep going. You were probably right about the foreplay, but my body will get with the program in a second."

He understood her meaning, and continued to push in as gently as possible before pulling out incrementally. It took a few moments for him to be fully seated inside her, but by that point, she had relaxed considerably. She nodded at him, giving him permission to do as he'd promised: to properly fuck her.

And he did.

They wrapped their arms around each other, and she wrapped her legs around him, as he fucked her hard. He wasn't surprised to find that she was quiet during intercourse; he could tell from her breathing patterns and the little gasps and grunts she made that she was enjoying herself, and used those as guides for which angle she preferred, or which speed felt the best. One day, maybe, she'd talk to him, encourage him, whisper filthy things in his ear, but tonight, he was content to enjoy the sounds she made.

He typically spoke more, saying all sorts of dirty things until he closed in on his climax, at which point he was known to devolve into incoherence. But after all he'd been through today, and after coping with the certainty that he would lose her, he couldn't think of what to say. He could only hold onto her and _feel_ her and love her and make love to her.

She was right that the lubricant helped. The slickness it provided was of a slightly different nature than a woman's arousal was, and it was just so easy to slip in and out of Emma at the right pace. She felt incredible, although he suspected that she would feel even more incredible if the two of them weren't separated by the condom. At least he tried it; she was obviously just hoping to make the experience more pleasurable, and it wasn't her fault that he was one of those _guys_ she'd referred to earlier.

His thoughts were cut off as he noticed that Swan was nearing climax; he picked up the pace and lifted himself up slightly so he could enjoy the view. And enjoy it he did; the feeling of her tightening around him, the sight of her face screwed up in pleasure, the sound of her moaning.

She panted heavily as she came back down, and her eyes fluttered open. "Oh my god, that was—holy shit."

"Satisfactory?"

"Yeah. Oh wow, yeah." She pulled him back to her and shifted her hips to give him a better angle. He groaned, and she whispered in his ear: "I want you to come, Killian. Keep fucking me. I want to feel you come."

So perhaps Swan _did_ talk in bed. And who was he to deny her wishes? He thrust into her faster, and more wildly, until finally the sensations overcame the barrier presented by the condom. And then he was coming.

Swan continued whispering into his ear as his climax washed over him, but he could hardly hear her. Finally, the last wave of pleasure ended, and he carefully pulled out. "Swan, that was worth the wait."

"You're just saying that," she said; he couldn't tell if she was blushing, or still flushed from her orgasm.

"I am not, though I'm glad we stopped waiting," he admitted. He felt the wet condom against his groin. "Uh, what happens now?"

"Oh, let me help." It was strange seeing his release inside of the condom, and although he wasn't typically squeamish about his ejaculate, he didn't really like that it was trapped against his skin like that. Swan pulled off the condom and headed into the bathroom; she returned with a towel for him to clean off the end of his cock. "Was that okay?" she asked. "The condom?"

"It was unusual, but fine," he admitted. "I'd prefer to be able to _really_ feel you, though, if you wouldn't mind forgoing them in the future."

"Huh?"

He frowned. "Sorry, love, it's just that you said that not every man enjoys using them. I admit that it's convenient that we don't have to worry about my release staining the bedspread, but I wouldn't mind cleaning up."

She winced. "Oh, god, I'm sorry. Killian, these are to prevent _pregnancy._ Easy clean-up is just a bonus."

 _Oh._ That made _much_ more sense; his release hadn't ever entered her, as it had been trapped inside the condom. "Well, that is _one_ way to do that," he conceded.

"How did you guys handle it in the Enchanted Forest?"

"A man simply pulled out before climax. It wasn't always effective, although the elite could usually afford the potion necessary to rectify the situation."

"Yeah, pulling out doesn't really work very well," she said, a little wistfully.

"Henry?" he asked.

"Yeah. I didn't insist on using condoms, and Neal didn't like how they felt. I figured he knew what he was talking about when he said pulling out worked."

"Well, slightly less pleasure is a very small price to pay if you can avoid unwanted pregnancy."

She smiled. "Yeah. I mean, it's definitely the easiest way. We didn't really have a choice tonight."

"What do you mean?"

"There are pills you can take—well, that _I_ can take, or other medical things that I could do. They're all reversible," she said, when he winced. "Really, they are. They just take time to start working, and you have to see a doctor to get started. But if I did something like that, we wouldn't need to use condoms."

"I'm not the sort of man who'd ask his lover to undergo a medical procedure just for a tiny amount of pleasure," he protested.

She rolled her eyes. "Killian, I don't really like condoms either, so I'd be fine with it. And they're all long term things, too. And easier on you—not that I'd mind, but you can't put on a condom with one hand, so I'd have to help you every time."

He winced. "So my options are for you to alter your body, or to make you apply the condom every time?"

"Look, why don't I make an appointment? We can go together, and the doctor can explain all the different things we could try. Killian, look at me." He obeyed. "We're talking about long-term birth control because I want to have sex with you regularly. Long-term."

He blinked as it took him a moment to understand _birth control_ , but then he smiled. Emma Swan wanted to explore options to prevent pregnancy so that they could make love regularly. For a long time.

She was _all in._

"I think that's a wonderful idea."


	10. Guilt and Gratitude (4x12)

**Hook + ballpoint pen**

 **Thanks to trueloveswanjones for the suggestion!**

 **Content warning: Brief mentions of somewhat explicit sexual content.**

* * *

Swan's phone was buzzing, which was quite irritating given that it was her day off. Killian had been awake for some time already; he was used to rising early, and that was one habit that hadn't changed even as the rest of his life had. But he was _quite_ content to lie in bed, naked, with a very naked Emma Swan doing _unspeakable_ things to his body.

"Please— _please_ don't answer that," he pleaded. She respected his wishes, and the phone stopped vibrating. He sighed in relief before groaning as Swan swirled her tongue around the head of his cock.

And then the phone buzzed again. This time, she sighed and released him from her mouth. "Sorry."

"Bloody hell, love, your father promised not to call today."

"I know, but it might be an emergency." She wriggled her way back up to the head of the bed and grabbed her phone. "Hello?" She braced the phone between her shoulder and ear and reached down for his cock again. Oh, she was _naughty._ He grinned and shifted to give her better access as she continued her conversation.

"No, I wasn't asleep," she said. "But you promised that I'd _finally_ have today off." So it _was_ David; he felt a little guilty that Emma was pleasuring him while carrying on a conversation with her father, but said father had _indeed_ promised her the day off. Served Dave right if he figured out what his daughter was doing.

Swan increased the pace of her hand as she spoke to her father; Killian stopped listening and instead focused on the sensations she was providing. It had been a week since she'd declared her commitment to him, and he had _absolutely_ been enjoying what Snow White had referred to as their _honeymoon period._ He didn't care that such a period would eventually end; what mattered was that he and Swan were bringing each other to mind-blowing heights of pleasure every moment they had the privacy to do so (and one time when they honestly really hadn't), and not even a phone call from David was going to interrupt that.

He was close to his climax when Swan finally ended the call. "Sorry about that," she said, tossing her phone back onto the nightstand and leaning forward to wrap her lips around his cock again. He was going to make a quip about how her actions more than made up for the interruption, but her mouth felt too good for him to think of anything clever. And in no time at all, he was coming, jerking his hips uncontrollably.

Once he'd recovered his senses, he sat up, keen on returning the favor. But as he reached for Swan to pull her into the best position, she shook her head and swung her legs off the bed instead. "Sorry, but I actually have to go."

"Swan," he groaned, "your father _promised_ you the day off. What reason could he possibly have to go back on that guarantee?"

"He's busy dealing with a break-in down by the docks, and he just got a call asking me to check on someone. Welfare check—no one's seen them in a while and I need to make sure they're okay."

"That's the sheriff's duty?" She nodded. "Perhaps I'll join you, then."

She chuckled. "Why? So you can go down on me in public, and we can almost get caught again?" She began pulling on her clothing.

"We _almost_ got caught. Almost. And to be fair, darling, that was part of the thrill."

"Well, maybe some other time; I think we've made everyone suspicious enough that they're expecting it."

"Then I promise to be on my best behavior," he said solemnly, before climbing out of bed and pulling on his underwear.

"Uh, yeah, but even so, maybe I should handle this alone."

"It's no trouble, love. It's not as though I'd go back to sleep at this late hour, and besides, I've yet to find an occupation here; I don't exactly have anything else to do."

She shrugged and pulled on her jacket. "You could help my mom with the baby," she suggested, "Or, hell, you could even help Dad with whatever's going on at the docks. We can meet up for lunch, and then I promise, you've got me the rest of the day."

He finished fastening his jeans and was about to comment that her second idea had merit. But he stopped himself as he considered her tone. "Swan, is there some particular reason you'd prefer to work alone this morning?"

"No!" she protested, not very convincingly. "It's just that these checks can be boring, and well …"

"Swan."

"Okay, fine, you can come with me." He grinned as she came over to help him with his brace. She rolled her eyes. "You wore me down. Hope you're proud of yourself."

"A little, but you are _just_ so easy for me to wear down."

It wasn't until they'd been in her car for about ten minutes that he realized just why she was so reluctant to permit him to come along. They were driving to part of Storybrooke that he hadn't visited since he'd first arrived, when he was still planning his revenge on Rumplestiltskin.

His suspicions grew, and his stomach twisted itself into knots, as they drew closer and closer to their destination. He continued to hope that he was wrong, until Swan brought the car to a halt in front of the Dark One's house. Bloody hell.

"You can stay in the car," she told him, and he just nodded. She gave him a sad smile before exiting the vehicle and making her way up the path to the main door.

He focused all of his attention on a smudge on the interior of the car, and tried very hard not to feel guilty. It was not _his_ fault that Rumplestiltskin was a failure as a husband. It was not _his_ fault that Belle had to decide between her love for the monster, or her dignity. It was not _his_ fault that any of this had happened—Rumplestiltskin may have used him to avoid arousing suspicion, but the Dark One would have eventually come after his heart anyway. He'd just been a _pawn._

That had been one of the great injustices of the situation. It was bad enough that his own nemesis, the man he'd sworn to destroy, had practically owned him. But being _owned_ again—that had been the worst part. The loss of freedom and control over his own destiny had been the greatest insult.

He had been a victim of Belle's husband. That was the long and short of it. There was no reason for him to feel guilty.

Swan had been taking an awfully long time, though. He chanced a glance towards the front door. She was still standing there, and he could see that the door was open, but if Belle were standing in the doorway, Swan was blocking her from view. And then, suddenly, the door shut—almost as though slammed; Swan stood there for a moment before shaking her head and turning back.

"Sorry that took so long," was all she said when she reentered the car. "I've got to file a report—it's a paperwork thing. Do you want me to drop you off at Granny's and I'll meet you for lunch? Or do you want to hang out at the station with me?"

"Granny's should be fine. Thanks, love. Perhaps I should have stayed behind."

"It's okay. I don't think she saw you."

They didn't talk much after that, and soon enough, she'd dropped him off in front of Granny's. He waved to her as she drove off to the station, but instead of heading inside, he turned back around.

It took him about an hour to get back to the Dark One's house, and only because he'd walked briskly; even in the cool weather, he was sweating a bit from the exertion. He stopped at the end of the pathway that would lead him to the same front door Swan had just knocked at. Was he making a mistake coming here? Would his appearance make matters worse?

He fervently hoped not. He made his way to the door and knocked.

The door opened after a few moments. _"Look,_ Emma, I know—Oh. It's you."

"Aye." He was taken aback by Belle's appearance. In the short time he'd known her here in Storybrooke, she'd always been dressed in what Swan had told him were very stylish clothes, and her hair and cosmetics had always been impeccable. She'd also rarely been without her heeled shoes; now, he was surprised by just how much shorter than he she really was. She looked almost ill, with her face bare, and she was dressed in what Swan referred to as _sweats._

Additionally, and more importantly, she wore an expression that made him desperately want to flee the vicinity.

"Do you _want_ something?" she asked bitterly.

He swallowed hard; he was no coward, though. He would stay and do what he came to do. "I was hoping to speak with you," he said, his mouth suddenly very dry. "You don't have to invite me in; I'm fine talking here."

"So talk," she replied, crossing her arms and staring resolutely at him.

"Right, very well." He cleared his throat and tried to recall exactly what he'd rehearsed mentally as he'd walked over. "First, I wanted to thank you. You saved my life. I've—I've done nothing to earn that—that consideration from you." He couldn't help but stare at his shoes. "In fact, I suppose with the way I've treated you in the past …"

He tried to meet her gaze, but this time, she looked away. "There's a second of all?" she mumbled.

He licked his lips. "Perhaps—never mind."

"No, you came _all_ this way," she said sarcastically. "It would be a shame if you disturbed my solitude for only a 'first of all.'"

He tried his best not to scowl at her tone. She had every right to be angry, to not want to see anyone, _especially_ him. He might have been a victim as well, but he had been complicit towards the start.

"The hat," he said. "Yo—" He stopped himself, grimacing. "I used it to trap an old man, and all of the fairies. I was hoping that you might help me find a way to free them."

She slammed the door in his face; it was almost a relief.

He was back at Granny's well before Swan finished her paperwork; she gave him a curious glance when she sat down in what had become their booth, but she didn't ask him what he'd been up to. The rest of the day passed peacefully enough, with a stroll through town and dinner at Regina's before he and Swan parted ways.

It was one of her nights with Henry; with Robin gone, the lad spent most nights with Regina to help soothe her. Killian tried not to feel too resentful; he was fond of Henry, and they were even going sailing later that week. And besides, he and Swan were still learning how to share a bed; neither of them slept all that well when she spent the night, due to a combination of intimate activities and the unavoidable discomfort of new sleeping arrangements.

But tonight, he felt acutely aware of her absence, and it took even longer for sleep to claim him than it would have had she been present. His encounter with Belle had taken place over the span of mere minutes, and yet sleep evaded him for hours as he obsessed over every moment. Should he have gone back later, with Swan? Should he have enlisted her help? Should he have apologized? Shown more gratitude?

Had Swan been with him now, she would curl up against him, distracting him from his thoughts. He would think of nothing except her fierceness and goodness and beauty, and fall asleep breathing in the scent of her hair (it wasn't difficult; she had quite a bit of it and more often than not, it ended up in his face). But instead, he was alone, thinking about his failure.

* * *

Three days later, on Swan's next day off, her phone buzzed again.

"Oh, god."

Killian lifted his head up long enough to say, "Don't you _dare_ answer, Emma. Don't you _dare."_

"I wasn't—ah! I wasn't going to!"

He growled as he sucked gently on her clit; he'd make _sure_ she couldn't even _think_ about answering.

"Wait, wait!" she said suddenly, gripping his hair just hard enough to get him to stop moving his head. "Killian, that's _your_ phone."

"Wha—it is?" It _was._ The only person who ever called him was Swan, and she was very obviously _not_ the one trying to reach him.

"Here." She grabbed his phone and tossed it to him before also handing him the towel that they'd set aside for clean-up. He quickly wrapped the towel around his left wrist before picking up the phone and answering it.

"Hello?" He wiped at his mouth and beard, tilting the phone away as he did so. As it was, he wasn't sure he heard the voice on the other end correctly.

"Hoo—uh, Killian?"

"Ah, yes," he said, before asking hesitantly: "Belle?" Swan's expression instantly went from pleasured to curious.

Belle cleared her throat. "I, uh, asked Granny for your number. I hope that's okay."

"Of course. Is there …" He licked his lips, and then blushed as he tasted Swan's arousal on them. "What can I do for you?"

"There are a few books in the shop," she said after a few moments of silence. "They might be worth a look."

The hat. She was talking about the _hat._ His heart beat faster. "Aye. That sounds promising."

"I thought I might bring them to the library, if you'd … if you'd like to look at them."

"I would, if that's all right."

"Well, I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise," she said dryly, with the same bite she'd had three days prior. "I'll be there around nine-thirty, in terms of when you could stop by."

He wasn't sure what time it was now, but Granny's was close enough to the library that as long as he had more than five or ten minutes, he'd be punctual. "Thank you. Shall I bring you coffee?"

"No thank you," she said stiffly. "Well, goodbye then." And the call ended.

"You wanna tell me what that was about?" Swan asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Perhaps another time," he said. "I believe we were rudely interrupted while I was in the middle of something _very_ important." He dropped his phone on the bed and knelt back down between Swan's thighs.

She promptly shut them before he was able to resume, nearly kneeing him in the face in the process. "Nice try, buddy. Why did Belle call you?"

"Jealous that the newly single librarian might pose a threat to our relationship?" he teased, hoping to change the subject. "You've nothing to fear, darling, I'm just as committed to us as you are."

"Again, nice try." She crossed her arms and glared. _"Killian."_

He sighed. "I may have gone back to see her after your initial visit the other day."

"Killian! Why the hell would you do that?"

"I wanted to _thank_ her," he admitted. "Swan, you seem to have forgotten that I tried to kill her more than once. That's to say nothing of the centuries I spent trying to destroy the man she loved—probably _still_ loves, if we're being honest. She didn't have to save me, and she _did."_

"Of _course_ she did," Swan said, sounding almost irritated. "I've saved people I didn't like."

"So I shouldn't be grateful?" he countered. "I shouldn't be grateful that as she confronted her traitorous husband, as she exposed his betrayal _in front of others,_ she still saved me?" Swan simply frowned, possibly remembering the moment that she'd had to watch, frozen, as someone _else_ saved him. "I thought that she was owed something, at least. That she should know that I was grateful."

Swan sighed and shook her head. "Well, what's all the stuff about coffee?"

"I asked her for help with the hat."

"Wait, so you basically showed up at her doorstep and said, 'Thanks for saving me even though you hate me, and by the way, mind helping me?'"

The exasperated sound that escaped him defied description. "I would _like_ to believe that you know I'm more well-mannered than that."

She scowled. "I might be exaggerating, but I can't believe you did that! Why not ask Regina?"

"Regina doesn't know any more about the hat than I do. I asked already. I need to research it, and, well … Belle is the expert in that realm."

"Yeah, I _guess,_ but—"

"Emma," he said firmly. "Darling, please trust me. Trust that I'm trying to do right by Belle." He sighed. "And please, trust that I'm doing the right thing for me."

She stared at him for what felt like ages before she nodded. "Belle drinks tea, not coffee."

Killian arrived at the library at precisely nine twenty-eight, anxiously trying not to spill anything hot on himself. He still didn't trust what Swan referred to as _take-out_ or _to-go_ cups (she switched back and forth between the terminology, and when asked which one was correct, simply shrugged). They were made of paper, after all, and he'd plenty of experience with the results of getting liquid on parchment. It didn't matter that he'd spent a few weeks drinking out of these strange cups with their synthetic tops; he still expected them to fall apart at any moment.

Making matters worse, only having one hand meant that carrying two beverages was quite risky. He gripped Belle's tea in his hand as he tried to keep his left arm balanced; his own coffee fit snugly in the curve of his hook, but his arm was getting tired from holding it at just the right angle.

He saw Belle approaching well before she arrived at the front door. From a distance, he saw the heavy tomes she was carrying; as she drew nearer, he could see that she was still forgoing personal appearance as she grieved. Her hair was tied back very simply, she still wore no makeup, and she wore jeans and flat shoes.

Her expression was determined, but he recognized the particular shade of it: it was determination born of guilt and anger, not hope.

She frowned when she reached him. "What is that?" she asked, her tone accusatory.

He coughed and lifted the cup he was holding in his hand. "Tea. Granny said you prefer English breakfast with one teaspoon of sugar."

She blinked. "I asked you not to bring me anything."

"You turned down my offer for _coffee,"_ he replied gently. "I didn't want to be rude, since I was bringing myself a beverage." He lifted his own cup to demonstrate.

She didn't reply, and instead shifted the books she carried so that she could unlock the library door. He flushed a bit; he wanted to be a gentleman and assist her, but there was no way that he could, with both hand and hook full. Before he could find a solution—perhaps there was somewhere he could set one of the drinks down—she'd opened the door and entered. He had to move quickly to follow her; she didn't hold the door open for him, and the same problem that prevented him from assisting her also would make it difficult to open the door himself.

He followed her inside to a small table tucked into a little alcove. She looked as though she was about to throw the books down before thinking better of it; they were quite old and potentially fragile. She set them down carefully instead. "I'll be back in a moment."

As she walked away, he set down her tea and his coffee, groaning a little as he shook out his left arm. He'd occasionally had to hold Swan's coffee or hot cocoa in his hook, but never for _this_ long.

He was massaging his forearm a bit when Belle returned, arms filled with supplies. She dropped them on the table unceremoniously. "Right, so, I have some paper here for notes," she said, gesturing at the crisp, almost unnaturally white sheets of it. "And some sticky notes—they, uh, have some mild adhesive so you can safely stick them in books." She demonstrated with a blue note. "I suppose I'll get started with this one, if you want to try this one." She pushed one of the dusty books in his direction before sitting down as far away from him as possible.

"Excellent idea," he said, taking a seat at the other end of the table. It was nice of her to even agree to sit in the same room with him; he would respect her need for space.

The book was a bit promising; it appeared to be a detailed compendium of ancient magical artifacts. There were plenty of items listed in the contents that could be the hat; he eagerly flipped to the first one listed that appeared interesting.

He reached for one of the little square adhesive notes to mark the page, and then for a—

"Ah, you wouldn't happen to have a pen?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "There are a bunch right there."

Right where? In the center of the table, amidst the paper and notes, were a few sticks. "Those?"

"Yeah." Her tone indicated that it was _obviously_ that these were pens.

He reached for the nearest one. It was pen-shaped, at least, but instead of a nib, there was a hole. There was also a strange piece sticking out of the side of it, and a small, short cylinder at the top.

This was a pen?

He gripped it as though it were and tried to write down the note he wanted. As he'd expected, nothing happened. Maybe it was upside down?

As he pressed the other end to paper, there was a _click._ To his surprise, a nib popped out of the hole on the other end. Well, that was one mystery solved; now he just needed ink.

He scanned the table again, but there didn't appear to _be_ any ink. There were more pens, although they seemed rather varied in terms of shape and style, and there were some other supplies he didn't recognize. But there was definitely nothing resembling ink.

A thought occurred to him, one that had been occurring more and more frequently as he spent more time in this realm. So much of technology here was geared towards convenience and ease. It was convenient to be able to bathe and relieve oneself inside without having to dispose of one's own waste afterwards. It was convenient to be able to store food for long periods of time. It was convenient to be able to light a room with the flick of a switch, and darken it just as quickly.

It would be very convenient to be able to use a pen without having to constantly dip it in ink. He pressed the nib to the note and wrote, "Mention of a magic hat here." The pen moved smoothly across the paper; there was no scratching, nor did it catch on any invisible divots in the note. And there it was: the text he'd planned to write.

He'd figured it out; he grinned.

He heard a chuckle from the other end of the table and looked up; Belle was smirking. "I was wondering how long it would take you," she admitted.

"I'm a fast learner."

"I can see."

"What is this exactly?"

"A ballpoint pen. There's a little ball at the tip that makes it roll smoothly over the paper."

"Ah, that explains it. I rather like it, actually."

"I do as well. The ink's inside the pen. You actually throw them out when they're empty—well, you can buy nice pens where you have to refill them, but this is actually easier."

Ah, yes, the _other_ thing he'd learned about convenience in the Land Without Magic: people threw a lot of things away. "And when I'm finished, I simply press this again?" he asked, tapping on the cylinder at the top.

"Yeah, for those ones. Click-top pens, or whatever you'd like to call them. Some of them have caps." She demonstrated with another pen; it seemed similar to his eyeliner pencil. "I prefer the click-tops, though. I lose caps all the time."

"I imagine I would, too." He set the pen down and sipped his coffee. When he looked up at her again, she was eyeing him curiously. "What is it?"

She blinked, obviously not expecting him to ask what she was thinking. "Nothing, it's just … I sometimes forget what it was like to not know anything about this realm."

When had she lacked such knowledge? "I thought you came over with the original curse."

"I did, but Regina made it so that I had no cursed memories at all," she said sadly. "It's why, when—" She stopped talking immediately, and he knew why.

It was why she'd lost _all_ her memories when she'd fallen across the town line. When he'd shot her.

"Belle, I'm—"

"Please, let's—let's just forget about it," she said quickly.

"I—all right." The urge to beg her forgiveness welled up inside him, but he would respect her wishes. It was enough that she was here, that she'd brought these books, that she was even speaking to him.

He flipped to the next potentially-relevant page and added another note to it, enjoying the way the pen flowed across, so neatly and beautifully, and resolving to ask Swan where he could purchase some of these for himself. The _Jolly Roger_ might be gone, but he still enjoyed keeping a personal ledger of sorts; he'd planned to ask her where he could get ink, but this pen was far superior to the old fountain pen he'd been carrying around for centuries.

The sound of a paper cup scraping the table caught his attention; he lifted his head in time to see Belle casually lifting up her tea, giving it a sip as she read. She grimaced slightly as she did so, and then she met his gaze. "More sugar next time," she said. "Granny's tea tends to be a little bitter."

He nodded. "Understood."

She smiled.


	11. Hello Darkness, My Old Friend (4x14, 19)

**Hook + modern music**

 **Thanks to feeling-quilly and euphoric-melancholyy for the suggestion!**

 **This is the final one-shot in this series. Thanks, everyone, for your kind words and support!**

* * *

"I don't need a babysitter," Henry said without looking up from the storybook.

Killian sighed. "I'm not your sitter."

"So you just happen to be at my mom's office in the middle of the afternoon when she's not here to … what? Vote?"

"Would you like me to leave?"

"I didn't say that," Henry grumbled. He removed the little plugs he had in his ears and looked up. "I'm not a kid anymore, okay? I don't see why everyone feels like I need constant supervision."

Killian walked over to the chair opposite Henry at the desk. "May I?" Henry nodded, and he sat. "It's not that anyone believes you need constant supervision." He wasn't going to address the other comment; he remembered what it was like to be a thirteen-year-old, and there would be no convincing Henry that he was, indeed, still quite young.

"Then why are you here?" Henry raised an eyebrow, clearly convinced he'd won the argument, nascent as it was.

"Your mother is currently undercover, trying to determine the motives of three powerful villains. Your other mother is trying to help. They're both risking a lot right now."

"Don't you think I know that? That's why I want to help."

"It's more than that," Killian continued. "Villains often combat heroes by going after the people they love. Your mothers haven't asked me to look after you because they think you're a child." Well, there _was_ that, but again, bringing it up would do neither of them any good right now. "It's important that you're not alone because of what those women might do to you if they discover Regina's ruse."

Henry seemed to be considering this. "So what you're saying is that the problem isn't that I'm a kid, but that I'd be a good target to hurt my moms?"

"That's right."

He shrugged. "I guess that's fair." He turned back to the pages in front of him.

"You're really focused on the book, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, it's our best clue when it comes to finding the Author."

Of course: the bloody Author. Over the past several weeks, Swan had committed to helping Henry and Regina with this strange plan. He wasn't quite sure of its merits, which had resulted in not one, but _two_ fights between himself and Emma.

He supposed that the fights were a little more his fault than hers, since he was the one who brought up the subject both times. And Swan _was_ just trying to help someone she considered a friend. As much as it pained him sometimes, since Regina still often made snide comments and remarks at Swan's expense, he understood just how important it was to Swan to make the friendship stick.

But what _good_ would it do them all, finding this Author and demanding he or she alter their lives? It wasn't just that such a plan couldn't be that simple, although it obviously _couldn't_ be. They didn't even understand how the book functioned, or what the Author's role really entailed; it might not even be possible to make the changes that Regina wanted.

Not to mention the ethics of the thing. He wasn't sure how Regina could change her circumstances without changing other people's perceptions, attitudes, or behaviors. The thought of being controlled like that, of having his opinions or maybe even his personality altered, was beyond abhorrent.

He couldn't fault Regina for wanting to find happiness, since it was something he understood quite intimately. And he had some experience feeling like he was owed divine punishment due to his villainous past. But this felt like the wrong way to change things.

"Perhaps there's another solution to your mother's predicament," he commented, hoping that the lad wouldn't become withdrawn again.

"Like maybe if she just did the right thing without expecting a reward, or if she stopped trying to get revenge every time something bad happened, she'd be happy?"

"Well—what?"

"Look, this is a weird plan," Henry admitted. "I don't know if I'll be able to find any information, and to be honest, I'm okay with that. This isn't about finding the Author and convincing them to fix things, even if my mom _thinks_ that's what this is about. It's about letting her know that we care about her and want her to be happy."

"That's … I hadn't thought about that. Does Emma know about this?"

"Yeah, I told her weeks ago. She didn't tell you?" No, she hadn't, and his silence answered Henry's question. "Oh, okay. Well, yeah, I mean, if we _do_ find the Author, I think it would be pretty cool. This book changed my life and helped break the curse, so I want to know more about it and how it works. The Author is the best person to answer those questions." He shrugged. "Besides, this is really the only way anyone will let me help do _anything."_

"Henry, it's not as simple as that."

"But I want to be a hero. They all _know_ I want to."

"Being a hero isn't as simple as wanting to be one," he said as patiently as he could.

"How did you do it, then?"

"How did I what?"

"Become a hero." He said it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I'm … well, I don't think I am one, Henry."

"Of course you are. You're on our team."

"Fighting a common enemy isn't grounds for being a hero. Rumplestiltskin was aligned with us against Pan, and though he was under Zelena's control, he was very much on our side in that situation as well. Do you consider him a hero?"

"He didn't want to be one," Henry said, and Killian wondered just how angry the lad was that his grandfather consistently failed to live up to his standards. "You did."

"Heroes don't make deals with villains for selfish reasons," he said, thinking of how desperate he'd been to have the perfect date with Swan. "And they certainly don't help villains hurt innocents."

Henry rolled his eyes. "Heroes make mistakes, don't they?"

"I suppose."

"So, there," he said, as if that settled the matter. "Anyway, since you're babysitting me, do you want to help me with all this?"

He didn't really, but there wasn't much else to do. "Uh … how?"

Henry pushed over a few loose pages, a pad of adhesive notes, and a pen. "I only have one magnifying glass," he said apologetically.

"What am I looking for exactly?"

"Anything, really," Henry explained. "These are the new pages from August's stuff, so I haven't really been able to check them as thoroughly. I basically look for any hints about who the Author is, or how the book works. It's weird because I _knew_ there were other pages besides what was in my book—there's one of my mom kissing Robin Hood instead of running away from him."

"All right, so just any clues," Killian clarified, and Henry nodded. He then put the strange plugs back in his ears and began looking at the storybook again.

Killian had seen plenty of people around Storybrooke wearing those ear plugs, including Swan, who usually had them in when she left and returned from early morning exercise. She'd explained it away as just "listening to music," but he'd never pressed for her to elaborate (mainly because they'd both discovered he was unexpectedly _extremely_ attracted to her when she returned to his room breathing hard and covered in sweat; he wasn't nearly as interested in clarification when he was in the middle of fucking her).

But now would be the optimal time to inquire further, especially since it would give him something else to do with Henry besides engage in a fruitless search for the Author. "Listening to music?" he asked.

Henry pulled the plugs out. "Uh, yeah." He narrowed his eyes. "You've listened to music, right?" Killian shook his head, and Henry's expression turned into one of disbelief. "Oh, come _on,_ really? What has Mom been doing with you?"

There was an awkward moment as it clearly occurred to Henry just exactly _what_ his mother had been doing, but they both shook their heads and moved on. "Anyway, yeah, so this thing has all my music on it." He held up the device that the plugs were attached to; it was a small rectangle that looked as though it had originally been white, but had now darkened a bit with age. There was a glass inset, much the same as the one on everyone's phones, and underneath was a circle. "I've been asking for a new one for a while—this one is super old."

Henry pressed the center of the circle, and the screen came to life. But the information on it made little sense.

"That's the song I'm currently listening to," Henry said, as though the information should hold some meaning. "Here, these are called earbuds—put this one in your left ear … and this one in your right."

It wasn't terribly comfortable, putting in the _earbuds,_ but to his surprise, they did fit, snugly enough to remain in place. "Okay," Henry continued, and Killian was surprised at how easily he could still hear him. "Now I'm gonna hit play right here, and the song will start playing."

At first, he heard nothing, but then … a strange sound that was almost reminiscent of a far-away chorale. But before he could register what it was, a piano began to play.

This was … it was nice, actually. Quite pleasant. In fact—

His enjoyment was cut short by an extremely unpleasant noise. "What _is_ that?"

"What is what?" Henry grabbed one of the earbuds and stuck it back in his own ear. It was a little awkward, having to lean in so close to Henry so they could both listen. "It's just the song."

By this point, a man's voice had joined in and begun singing, but Killian was too distracted to follow the lyrics. "The … bloody hell, is that supposed to be percussion?"

"Oh yeah," Henry said, almost relieved. "Killian, those are just the drums. Tons of songs have them."

"Oh." Well, he didn't much like them. "Is it possible to make the music softer?"

"Yeah, right here." Henry touched the circle and moved his finger along it; he didn't quite catch exactly what Henry had done, but the music decreased in volume. "You don't like this song? I kind of thought you would, like, it might remind you of when you liked Mom but she wasn't ready to admit she liked you."

"Perhaps if I heard it again," he said. "I wasn't able to focus on the words." But then he realized what Henry had said, and he grinned. "Did she tell you that? That she liked me even back then?"

"Don't tell her I said that! She'll kill me!"

"I won't, I promise. Now, is there a way to hear this from the beginning? I'll try not to let the percussion distract me."

* * *

Killian's phone buzzed as he finished stripping down and crawling into his bunk. He grinned automatically when Swan's face showed up on the screen. "Hello, love."

"Hey." Her voice was low.

"Is everything all right?" He hadn't heard anything from her since she and Regina had found Lily; she'd sent him a message telling him so, and that the three of them were on their way to New York City.

"Yeah, just … we're all sharing a room at this cheap motel, so …"

"Motel?"

"Like, an inn."

"Ah, so you have no privacy."

"Exactly."

"So you found your childhood friend? Maleficent's daughter?"

"Yeah."

"Swan, what's wrong?"

"It's just … hold on." He heard some muffled sounds, and then the click of a door softly shutting. "Sorry, I went outside so we could talk. I mean, I still have to talk quietly."

"Of course. But what's wrong? I can tell you're upset."

There was a long, long pause before she answered. "I almost shot her," she whispered.

His heart sank. He _knew_ he should have gone with them, that Henry would have been perfectly safe with David and Snow. But he knew that arguing with her about it again was pointless; she'd already left without him, so the point was moot. "What happened?"

"She knew. Someone found her and told her the truth about everything—about me and Storybrooke and what my parents did to her. She'd been looking for a way in so she could show up and kill them."

"Bloody hell."

"And then—" He could hear her take a deep breath. "And then when we caught up with her to stop her, she dared me to kill her. Like, she wanted me to. And I was so _angry,_ Killian. I know I'm mad at my parents, but—"

"But you love them."

"Yeah … yeah, I do. And I just—it would have been so _easy …_ Regina managed to talk me out of it, and I think Lily's calmed down enough about the whole thing, but still …"

"Oh, darling."

"I wish you were here," she said, so quietly he could barely hear her. "I still think it was the right thing for you to stay, with Gold and the Author still out there, but I just …"

"I wish I were with you, too, dearest. I truly do."

"You're not disappointed in me?"

He almost laughed, catching himself before he could. "Why would I be disappointed in you?"

"I almost killed her, Killian."

"But you didn't. You're a hero, Swan. You don't hurt people."

"My parents did. It's why I'm here right now, why Lily and I even met in the first place."

"They made a mistake."

"Either they're not heroes, or I'm just as capable of fucking up as they are—and _don't_ say that I'm special because I had the darkness removed from me, because that's the whole problem, isn't it?"

"Emma, I didn't mean to bring it up. I'm sorry."

She sighed. "It's okay. I'm just stressed. And I miss you."

"I miss you, too. So you're staying the night in New York?"

"Yeah, close to it at least. We're going to get Robin and Roland tomorrow."

"What will you do with Zelena?"

She chuckled. "You mean, what'll _Regina_ do with her? No idea. Probably leave her here."

"She's earned her exile. I'd suggest we send the Crocodile back out with her, so they can be miserable together, but I'd worry they'd work together to find a way back in."

"God, probably." There was a click and he could hear Regina's voice in the background. "Sorry, Killian, I should go."

"That's all right, darling." He wanted to say _I love you,_ just so she knew. It was becoming more and more difficult to refrain from saying those words, not when he was _so_ sure she felt the same, not when he'd been desperate to tell her for so long. She must know at this point anyway, but the thought of telling her so before she was ready was terrifying. And so he settled for second best. "I miss you, and I'll think of you until you return."

"I miss you, too. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Good night."

"Good night."

He sighed as he ended the call. It really was too bad he couldn't kill the bloody Crocodile and keep the monster from hurting anyone else. Sometimes, he still thought about doing it, reasoning that his love for Emma could prevent him from doing too much harm as the Dark One.

But the thought of becoming _that_ , especially when he already struggled with his own darkness, was enough to stop him.

He reached for the headphones that Emma had given him and plugged them into his phone before settling them over his ears. When she'd heard that Henry had introduced him to this realm's music, she'd excitedly put together what she called a _playlist_ , with help from Henry, which she'd somehow put on his phone. The headphones were much more comfortable than the earbuds had been, although he wasn't sure where the name came from. How were they _phones?_ But either way, they worked the same way, though they fit over his ears instead of in them, and he found that he quite enjoyed some of the music that Emma and Henry had given him.

Swan had shown him the music _app_ , as it was called, and through trial and error one afternoon, he'd managed to figure out most of its functions. Now, as he lay back down and tried to relax, he pressed the icon that would randomize the songs, giving him a bit of a surprise every time one song ended and another began.

Most of the music that the two of them had selected for him was quite enjoyable, but some of it was not to his taste. He didn't have the heart to remove any songs from the list, in case Swan or Henry checked and saw, but he felt very little guilt in skipping them when they began to play. Such was the case for the first song that played, with heavy percussion and far too much synthetic nonsense.

The next song was the very first one he'd listened to, that day in Regina's office with Henry: "The Promise," performed by a musical group known as When in Rome. The lad had been right; once he'd gotten past his initial discomfort with the percussion, he found the song quite enjoyable. The lyrics reminded him of how he'd felt about Swan, after she'd kissed him and he'd begun to fall for her, and the music filled him with all the hope and determination he'd felt at the time.

He hadn't revealed to her what Henry had said, that she'd admitted she'd fallen for him long before she'd acted on those feelings, but knowing that filled him with some unknown emotion. He'd struggled to be honorable, to be good, to be _heroic_ , and she'd seen that. She'd appreciated it. She hadn't discounted it. It had meant something to her.

He hoped that he could be a hero, and not just heroic. Swan seemed to think so, and Henry, too, but were they simply blinded by their affection for him? Snow White and David still seemed to think he would slip, that he would hurt their daughter by turning back to the darkness. They'd managed to do exactly that, and they didn't have half of the villainous history that he did. Would Swan be enough to keep him from failing?

The song ended, and the next began. It was a sea shanty, one that he hadn't known in the Enchanted Forest, but was recognizable as such all the same. He appreciated that Swan and Henry had thought to put a few shanties on the list, but he wished they hadn't. Shanties were work songs, and reminded him too much of his days as an indentured servant.

He honestly preferred the modern music on the list. The lyrics weren't always terribly deep, but there was usually some poetry to them. He enjoyed that the combination of melody and lyric could evoke different emotions, especially when the tune and lyrics contrasted each other.

The song ended, and the next began. Ah, this was one of his favorites: "Burning Love" sung by a person called Elvis. It was joyous and simple, and it always made him want to sweep Swan into his arms and kiss her senseless. Even now, he had a grin on his face thinking about his love for her.

He skipped the next song, "Octopus' Garden," which he hoped Henry had put on the list as a joke. On to the next song: "Sound of Silence," performed by two men, one with an absurd name.

It was a song that he typically enjoyed, one that didn't engage percussion that was too obnoxious, or any synthetic sounds, or screaming instead of singing. The singers harmonized, and the music built appropriately.

But tonight, alone on the _Jolly Roger,_ with Swan far away and struggling with her own pain and sadness, the music left him feeling intensely lonely, reminding him of his own darkness and failures.

Was he a hero? Could he be one?

Would he always make the right decision? Could he, like Swan, always be selfless? What if he faltered, as Snow White and David had? Or as Rumplestiltskin had so many times? How many second chances did a villain get?

He recalled, with great clarity, how it had felt to threaten Ursula at gunpoint, how his anger had clouded his judgment, making it so _easy_ to feel justified in his actions. How could he be sure of himself when he already struggled so much?

As the song ended, he sighed. Surely, Swan and Henry hadn't expected their musical selection to result in this level of introspection. At least the next song, "Don't Stop Me Now," was upbeat and energetic, the perfect song to wash away the melancholy that had settled in.

But later that night, he fell asleep with the "Sound of Silence" in his head, and his dreams were troubled.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed this series!**

 **I am no longer posting stories to FFnet. For new stories, check out my page on AO3 (same username, phiralovesloki; there's a link in my profile as well).**


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